














LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

f o 

Shelf. 

UNITED STATES OE AMERICA. 



» ft 9 m 

* * 






<■ ’f 1 » / 


• ' » r 


. -•i 

’ •' *1 


k 1 


' « 


9 

t - 


-• 





« 

» V 


9 

! * 


, * 


>, 


’'f 


' -A- ■•' ' " 


I ft 


»1 






I 


'f^i 

'\yi 

■. ■; ''^^■' 




< i- 


vi' *> 

I* ^ »• T* » 

. . . ..< ♦ 


f» 




?e .. 


ii' )* \ ' \ 






• ■ ? ' ? . 


9 


« « 



• ^ ' f ‘ • • V* •• 

-•■• - r /• <ir- ^ 

I r •’ 12* 4l*'» t <W” ‘ Vi *• ^ *' ^ * 

. .1 -Itft?'' • • . 


*v V • * ." ■ 7 «' 

r * • ‘ y ' '“ v ' iffl. " ' 

' ' ■ \ . X\ ' *' ' * ^ .- -*.■ »>4, V' . ., 

I ■ , b'. •'• ’*:.• ‘ ^ •• • • ‘ -• •* .S'*. »V T 


/ • 

.I'-^V 




■ , • » 

I 


1 ' * 1 'A • 


=*C- 

■[^4 ^ i \ 


» » 







4 « 


f 


f 

9 


» . 


•'fv' . 


• * r - • » 

i*aV 



■r ; 


s 

* •• 







* * ' * * i 

- V -. illOJ, 


< 


►OS' , - ^' . vN# ► 

, . .•■-/t’yifc' 

1=5^. & ->vjV, 

pB • * c , 


), 


» • 







A 





S. 




• * 






4 ^ 


i** 

L'S 


^ 4 •• ■ *,** 






t%. 




' -4 




#, 




aWi 


^ •>» 


■V' 


/^jp 


t^*^ 






? 




K. 


%!<[ 


-* . t 


I ■• 


M i 










- 


A 




¥ 


V 




« 




i 






« , 


* \ 


i >//ipr-r v^ 


*• _fl 






♦n 


f w 


f.^ 


* . ♦ i ^ 


to'/s 


• ’ • •■ 


•' » 


4 « 


9 m 


1*^ i S>j 


•C V^'.^ '’1 


'Trt 




4-: 




/ * 


i i «» 






A-iiv 


4 • 


. ,r*,- - I ' * > ■ V 

f. 1‘ ^ .‘J •. t ? J 


‘ ? *■> 


•f-yi- 


\ r: 4^ 






I *’ 




3^ r 


t 


•* • 


' -■ 


»* 






..^ '-.r 




Jk9. 


'?% 




■-: -:^ ... 




f ^ 


>i^*A 


^ * • 

% 3 f\ k* ^ . . ^ » £ ■*"•€" T ' 

.' - 'I ?'*■■»' 






'r\ 


^ *# i 


.i« 


t 4 


•4 « 


r*l 


'>jfi 


. f$'r 

Ai»' 






4 J 


'4* V ji?-: 




« * 


> \ i. \^L \ 


• <. 


£ • 


' >IB vr 


'nr. * * % 

' %'■ ‘l 

M> ‘ * OL 'slrj* A 




* V 




r*^ 




' \. 






^L. { 


'UALftV*^ 'I 


. •'*- ■•*. SV^' ''V4C 




«•• — 




^ ' 






/ % 






V . 


>. .. 


M 











•V - 


t k ’ 






'X '.^? 



• • 




%‘ • V 


* A 


# N 4 

» 1 


> 



,1 





. . 'A . ^ *:*“§ •■ 

. ’ ^ 9 ' 


-CK^". * \ •• •>■ 



t: 


« ■ 


V ,s. 


« 


'V *.■ 


\ 

• # « 


1 



•# 


K 


. % V 




HK' V'^?- 






4 








i^vV- . ‘ ■ -t 

^ ^ -f ^ 

. » • . , ♦ • » 

''■£.'•** -V ' 

- • TfirV ^ 




• * I ““ 

»>*•'% 



'‘'i Ai'--- ' 

“ * * 


^i. 


•%. 




'1 - . * 






4 

t 




A jf' 

ifc •% ? 




, « 


w ^-- . - 

. ■■•. ^i-J, ■ 

VC ' ■; 

•»' 4 * h .' V .'» -. 



•f- 


« « 


J I. 


4 ’ ■- 

9 i\’ 


L t 


A * r, 




* .•• 
•V ^ 




I , 


;v 



- > - • . * 


■V 


.‘i 


I 





} 

K 

r. * 


I 


J 


✓* ^ 

j 


T 




• • 






>» ‘ 


" : - v 

« - • *. 1 ^ V 









V. 


'^>7 

7 > i{ 





>« 

< 


j ■ 

« 

♦ 


• t 



» fc*J. 


% ’ 's 


» I *’ 

M,>¥ * . .- It V 


£isSSi''r Af .' 


<fc* »* 

r '.J»V ^ 




• ‘ • * / 






I 


« * 



•v \ 

♦- 


« 

9 


•« 




* J * 


. ■ ' ^ ' 



i 








4 <1 












M U N K 0 ’ S LIBRA R Y . 

r VoL. 50. No. 741. June 3, 1887. Subscription $30. 

Entered at the Post Office, N. Y., as Second Class Matter. 

Muuro’s Library is issued Tri-Weekly. 


A. 

ONI: 


OR, 


Averted Vengeance. 


By 


WENONA 





Filtered according to Act of Congress, in the 2 /ear 1887, by Norman L. 
Jilunro, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, 
at Washington, D. C. 



NORMAN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

AND 36 VANDEWATER ST, 

\ \ . 


/ 


WHY ARE 



THE MADAME MORA’S CORSETS 


A MARVEI, OF COMFOKT AND EL.EOANCE? 


Try tbem, and you will Find 
WHY they need no breakings in, but feel easy at once. 
Why they are liked by Ladies of full figure, 

WHY they do not break down over the hips, and 

WHY the celebrated Freneh curved band prevents any 
■wrinkling or stretching at the sides. 

WHY dressmakers delight in fitting dresses over them. 

WHY merchants say they give better satisfaction than any others. 
WHY they take pains to recommend them. 


imitations, •which are frauds, high at 
Madame Mora’s. Sold by all 


^ . GUARANTEE; 

that If not perfectly satisfactory upon trial the money -will be refunded. 
L KRAUS &. CO., Manufacturers, Birminghanrij Conrr* 


ONI: 

CR, 

Averted Vengeance. 


By WENONA GILMAN. 


CHAPTER I. 

The sun is blazing down in all its brilliant, golden 
splendor. 

Beneath the spreading branches of a magnificent old 
tree, which interlace and entwine about each other, 
forming a perfect canopy of exquisite green, a girl, more 
than half-child, is lying at full length. 

Her head rests upon a bank of woodland violets, her 
little brown hands are thrown up and clasped under it, 
her feet and legs, from which the shoes and stockings 
have been removed, are outstretched, her whole air is 
that of easy, graceful abandon. 

Upon closer investigation I, Jack Wilton, junior part- 
ner in a thriving law firm, doing business under the nam.e 
of Pierrepont & Wilton in the great metropolis, see that 
she is an exceedingly pretty child. 

She is dark, with that clear, olive skin, which com- 
bines so well with black hair, a bright scarlet tint in her 
well rounded cheeks and upon her full lips, a perfect 
Grecian nose and aii arm as round as a baby’s. Her 
bright, dark eyes are half closed and blinking at the rays 
of the sun, which are struggling through the thick 
branches of the tree. 

I lean against a neighboring tree, watching her to my 
heart’s content, and thinking how awfully stunning she 


4 


ONI. 


looks, and wondering wlio she is, when my blessed gun, 
which never could retain an upright position against a 
tree— I can^t say whether it is my fault, or the gun’s— 
falls with a thud upon the soft grass. 

It doesn’t make much noise, but the faint sound 
reaches her and she lazily turns her head, or rather her 
eyes, in my direction. 

I cannot quite determine whether it is I or merely my 
sex which startles her, but she suddenly springs up to a 
sitting posture and pulls her short cotton dress over her 
bare limbs. 

Her eyes literally blaze fire as she looks at me. 

^^How dare you!” she says, with scorn fit for an em- 
press. 

I dofi my red hunting-cap, and advance toward her in 
the full glare of the afternoon sun, and stand uncovered in 
her presence. 

beg your pardon,” I say, with great humility, but 
IS not this the AVilton estate?” 

Suppose it is, what business have you to come here 
and stand staring like that at me? Maybe if you at- 
tended to your hunting a little better and left other folks 
to look after themselves, your game bag would not be 
quite so empty.” 

There is an unappreciated grain of truth in this, for 
my game bag is unadorned by a single feather, so far. 
But I pocket my little indignation because the speaker is 
so awfully pretty, and answer in my most fetching way: 

I fancied I saw the eyes of a gazelle here, and it was 
that which drew me to the spot.” 

"'It certainly did not take you all this time to discover 
that I am not a four-legged animal,” she says, in nowise 
mollified. " If you intended that as a compliment, it is 
very bad form, I can tell you, though your species should 
excuse you.” 

" My species! ^ May I ask you what that is?” 

" It is plainly indicated by your red jacket and cap. If 
you had the string tied to you and the Italian behind, 
the scene would be quite complete.” 

I throw back my head and roar. 

She only frowns harder. 

Perhaps it is not particularly funny, as far as words go, 
to be called a monkey; but to be told it by this girl child. 


ONI 


5 


who is evidenly not a lady, I mean in the sense we New 
Yorkers use the word ‘Hady/"’ and in the unusual man- 
ner she has assumed, is absurdly funny. 

The more she frowns the liarder I laugh, and vice 
versa. 

Finally, my laughter, which must sound ridiculous, 
coming from so slight a provocation, becomes contagious, 
I suppose, and though I can see slie is trying with all lier 
might to keep from it, she can control her feelings no 
longer, and breaks into a broad grin. 

How dazzling her perfect teeth look as her lips pass 
over them. 

That finishes my subjugation at once. 

I go closer to her and hold out my hand. 

Forgive me!^^ Isay, as though I were speaking to 
Ellrice Lestrange, my betrothed «^ife. I did not mean 
to offend you.-’^ 

She looks at me for a moment with those wonderful 
dark brown eyes, then she places her little soft brown 
hand in mine, and says: 

All right, I forgive you this time, but donT do it 
again. 

I promise with all the earnestness in my power, know- 
ing full well that if the opportunity ever offers itself, I 
shall do exactly the same thing again. 

May I sit down and rest?^^ I ask, and seat myself be- 
side her before she can refuse. 

It seems that my permission is not needed, -she says, 
drawing her scant cotton skirt aside. ^^Are there not 
plenty of places where you could rest without disturbing 
me T’ 

Perhaps, I say, taking out my cigar-case and pre- 
paring to make myself comfortable; ‘^"but I know of no 
place upon earth so inviting to me as right here.^" 

But suppose I object?” 

You could not be so cruel. Do you mind my smok- 
ing a cigar?” 

If you were as much accustomed to the fumes of 
a pipe as I am, you would never think about asking if a 
cigar is objectionable. Are you visiting up there?” indi- 
cating Wilton Grange, with a little backward jerk of her 
thumb. 

I am a scion of the house, the unfortunate younger 


6 


ONI. 


soil/’ T answer, leaning lazily back and resting my head 
upon the pillow of woodland violets which hers has just 
vacated. 

“Are you Jack Wilton she asks, in much surprise. 

“ I have that misfortune, I answer, wondering a trifle 
why she does not put some sort of a handle to my name 
as most young ladies do. 

She certainly uses good enough grammar, and her 
manner is so perfect as to be ridiculous when contrasted 
with her dress. 

“ Je-rusalem she says with a long, low whistle. 

I spring up and look at her. 

Did I say her manner was perfect? 

Then she breaks into a laugh, and the ripple of coun- 
try brooks, the babble of soft streams, and the odor of 
new* mown hay come into my mind. 

It enters my head somehow that I wish she would go 
on laughing like that forever, but then it suddenly oc- 
curs to me that that would not do, for she might get tired 
and hungry, and furthermore, that I, as an engaged man^ 
could not always be here to listen. 

“What is the matter?"’ I ask at last, but not until the 
last note of her laughter had died awav. 

“ Why, don’t you know? The idea of my having the 
cheek to order you off your own property.” 

I frown. 

I wish she wouldn’t use slang. 

Pshaw! _ What is it to me? 

‘^That is the funniest thing I know.” 

She breaks into another little laugh and I forget all 
about the slang in listening to her. 

“ Confidence for confidence,” I say. “ Tell me what 
you name is.” 

“Veronique,” she answers, laconically. 

“ Veronique what?” I say mildly. 

Nothing!” she answers, with a flash of her eyes. 

Do you mean that you really have no other name or 
you do not wish to tell me?” I question in some surprise 
luia some disappointment. 

“ It’s my little all,” she says, spreading out her small 
liands with a little old-fashioned gesture. “They call 
me Oni Gray, but I know perfectly well that is not my 
name. Father is one of Mr. Wilton’s tenants, and his 


ONI. 


7 


name is Gray. I know he is not my real father, and 
mother is not my real mother, though neither of them 
will acknowledge 

‘^How do you know?” I ask, my surprise increasing. 

^‘Because we have not a thought in common; because 
they do not love me as parents love their children; be- 
cause, though I am grateful to them for what they have 
done for me, I do not love them as a child loves its 
parents; because I have dreamed of a beautiful home, sur- 
rounded by magnificent trees and flowers, where the birds 
sang so sweetly always, where the sun was always bright 
and hot, and where a beautiful woman leaned over the 
cradle of a little child and murmured, ‘ Mi linda 
muchachita, mi querida hija.^ I do not know what it 
means, but I was the child and the beautiful lady was my 
mother.” 

Her eyes have grown unnaturally large and bright and 
she seems to be looking far back into the past and try- 
ing to recall all of that scene of which she speaks. 

Her voice dies away, and a great longing sadness fills 
her eyes. 

There is a strange hush over all nature, and we both 
sit for some seconds with this stillness upon us. 

You do not know the meaning of the sentence?” I 
question. 

Ho,” she answers, in a hushed sort of tone, ^"and 
since they took me away, I have never seen any one who 
could tell me. They, this father and mother, keep me 
away from every one, and I cannot find any one who 
could ever tell me what it means. They are all so igno- 
rant — that is, the only people they let me know. I never 
went to school a day in my life. Mother taught me to 
read, and I studied the rest myself, which is not much.” 

I feel very sorry for her. 

This change in her mood is becoming. 

Possibly, if you would repeat the sentence, I might 
translate it for you,” I say, softly. 

Oh, could you? AVouldyou?” 

Her face fairly beams with delight. 

think so,” I answer, smiling at her eagerness. 
used to be a pretty good Spanish scholar, and your accent 
is perfect,” 


8 


ONI. 


Is it Spanish? ^ Mi lincla mucliachita, mi qiierida 
hija/ ” she repeats, breathlessly. 

"'It means, "My beautiful baby girl, my darling 
child/ I say, softly. 

It is difficult to describe the expression of her face. 

Disappointment, sorrow, unuttered love and tender- 
ness are so blended there. 

"" It does not give me any clew, does it?^^ she says, sor- 
rowfully. Then her face brightens perceptibly, and she 
adds, "" But if I heard that voice in a multitude I would 
recognize it; if I saw that face among a million, I would 
know it, and she would know me. Mr. and Mrs. Gray 
try to make me believe that they are my parents, but my 
heart cries out against them, and I know that for some 
reason they are keeping my parentage from me. AVhat 
it is I know not, but I will find out some day, some day. 
But forgive me. What right have I to keep you here, 
listening to a stranger's woes, and worse, to one of your 
father's tenants.” 

"" I stay of my own accord,” I say, betraying in my 
voice some of the interest I feel. "" I like to hear vou 
talk. Go on.” 

"" There is nothing more to tell,” she says, simply, 

""How long have you lived here?” I ask. 

"" About two months.” 

"" That accounts for my not having seen you,” I say, 
trying to turn her mind to a brighter subject. 

I have a great fancy to try and provoke that happy, 
joyous laugh again. 

""Yes,” she answers. ""You have not been home 
since I have been here, but even had you been, you very 
likely would not have seen me, for your brother, Mr. 
Howard, has been here all the time, and I don’t think he 
has ever seen me.” 

"" You have seen him?” I ask. 

It is the height of folly of course, but I do not like to 
hear her mention my handsome brother’s name. 

Howard has hair as dark as her own, and eyes as soft 

as a woman’s, but AVell he is my brother and I must 

not speak of his faults. 

"" Yes, I have seen him,” she answers, carelessly. 

The tone reassures me. 

This child is young and innocent and trusting. 


ONI. 


9 


No, decidedly. I should not like her to know Howard. 

^^Do you not call him handsome?^^ I ask, with just a 
little touch of envy. 

Ye-es, she says, hesitatingly. But I like fair men 
best/^ 

She looks at me with that little soupcon of coquetry 
which is innate in all women, and I blush like a girl. 

My hair is a sort of light brown, with an inclination 
toward red in the sunlight and a curl in the bang, 
though the back is straight enough. But my mustache 
is decidedly whitish and rather small, and as my eyes are 
blue, 1 can lay claim to being a fair man. 

I am glad of that,^' I say, with a smile which I am 
glad none of my own set can see. 

How Ellrice Lestrange would laugh if she could see 
me here, half making love to this little rustic and as 
pleased at her implied compliment as a schoolboy. 

Yes, she would laugh, but I believe she would he half 
offended too. 

Well, Heaven knows I mean neither of them harm. 

I may be a spendthrift and a gambler, but I would 
never harm a woman, least of all an innocent, pure child 
of nature like this one. 

What a pity it is that this girl has not Ellrice^’s posi- 
tion and fortune 

Bah ! What a fool I am becoming. 

A little tinkling, silvery voice recalls me to myself. 

Mr. Wilton,’^ she says, if you will go away, I think 
I will go home.’’^ 

^^Why should I go away?'^ I say. Will you not let 
me walk home with you 

/^No,^^ she says, shaking her dark head and smiling 
brightly. My father and mother would make the air 
blue.'’^ 

“At least let me walk through the next field with 

your 

She looks distressed. 

“ Oh,"" I say stiffly, “ if you do not want me to, why 
not say so.^"" 

“It is not that,"" she says, hesitating and coloring 
deeply. 

“Then what is it?"" I ask, softening. 


10 


ONL 


My shoes and stockings/'* she blurts out. M^ill you 
go away ?’^ 

“ Oh!^^ I answer, laughing heartily. But 1^11 turn 
my back.” 

And I do, 

It is not many minutes before she has them on, then 
in a very business-like tone, she says: 

am ready. I live four fields across.^’ 

At Ivy Cottage?” I ask. 

“ Yes,” she says, simply. 

An unpleasant feeling comes over me. 

The last occupant of Ivy Cottage was David Black- 
moor. He had a pretty daughter, and Howard 

What an ass I am! 

What has Howard and David Blackmoor^s pretty 
daughter to do with this child, Oni Gray? Or what have 
I, for that matter? 

I pick up a few woodland violets and pin them on my 
shooting- jacket. 

I shall never see woodland violets,” I say, with a fool- 
ish, sentimental sort of feeling coming over me, with- 
out thinking of you.” 

Why not?” she asks, looking at me in innocent sur- 
prise. 

Because it w^as among them I first saw you. I wish 
I were an artist that I might paint you as you were then. 
I never saw such a beautiful picture.” 

“ Do you think so?” she says, with a pleased smile. 

‘^I do!” I say, with such deep conviction that she 
laughs again. 

Then she stoops over, and plucks some forget-me-nots 
that are growing near. 

She stands on tip-toe, and holds them beside my face. 

It is not what a woman of the world, a woman of so- 
ciety would have done, but it is infinitely sweet, and 
graceful and innocent. 


"" They are just the color of your eyes,” she says, ‘^and 
as you are wearing what you call my fiower, I shall wear 
yours.” 

She sticks them in her little belt, and looks up at me 
with an air of which a duchess might be proud. 

I catch her little hands in mine. 

‘‘ Veronique,” I say, rather hurriedly it seems to me, 


ONI. 


11 


I shall very likely see you a number of times, as I have 
a six weeks^ leave of absence, and shall spend it here, and 
if I can while here, or after I am away, at any time — if I 
can help you to find your mother, or in any other way, I 
want you to call upon me. Will you? I offer you my 
friendship. Will you accept it, and rely upon it?^^ 

A little troubled look gathers in the handsome eyes, 
but she looks fearlessly in my face. 

I don't quite understand," she says, slowly. I don't 
see how you can ever help me, but I will remember. You 
are the first friend I ever had, and I hope you will not 
forget me, for I like you." 

Then we walk on in silence. 

""You must leave me now," she says, timidly, at 
last. 

She is standing on the top of a stile, and I am on the 
other side. 

She certainly is the handsomest little creature I ever 
saw, I think, as she looks down at me, not very far down 
either, for she is short and I am quite tall. 

""All right," I say. But you must not forget your 
promise." 

"" I will not," she says. 

Then I take her carefully in my arms and lift her down. 

I never was very hurried in my motions, and I am in 
no particular haste now, but it comes to an end, and I 
find my heart is beating a little quicker when I release 
her. 

She leaves me without a word, only a faint smile and a 
nod of her pretty head. 

I set myself on the top of the stile, my half- smoked 
cigar between my lips, and watch her quick, graceful 
movements until she is out of sight. 

Heigh ho! 

Confound it! Why can't I ever see a pretty girl witli- 
out falling in love with her? 


CHAPTER IL 

"" I SHOULD think you would4)e baked, sitting in the full 
ravs of this scorching sun. By Jove! not a feather in 
your bag. What's the matter, old man?" 

It is my elder brother, Howard, who speaks. 


12 


ONI. 


I have always loved Howard, though he is a wild, devil- 
may-care sort of fellow — so am I, though, for tliat mat- 
ter — but someliow his presence now displeases me. 

I shake his hand off my shoulder rather impatiently, 
and am ashamed of myself a minute afterward. 

How like a great baby I am growing, and if there is 
anything on earth I detest, it is a man who acts like 
a girl. 

He looks at me rather hard and I say half apologetically: 

I don't think I am quite well. Guess I’ll go home. 
The sun don’t agree with me.” 

""I should fancy not,” he says, shrugging his broad 
shoulders, ^^ from your position when I came up.” 

I laugh. 

But I imagine it has rather a forced sound. 

Then I shoulder my gun, and swing myself back over 
the stile. 

I’ve no luck_to-day,” I say, discontentedly. I think 
I can spend my time better at home.” 

Oh!” he says, as if he had made a discovery. Miss 
Lestrange is more charming than the birds. Well, I con- 
gratulate you. Jack. It isn’t every fellow with no fort- 
une and a reputation for gambling, who can win a girl of 
hei family, with two millions of dollars in her own right 
to say nothing of her style and beauty.” " 

am glad you like her, and are pleased at my choice,” 

I say with freezing politeness. 

He looks at me again. 

‘'What the devil is the matter with you. Jack?” ques- 
tions my brother. “ Is it the sun that has gotten into 
your head, or what?” 

“ I am tired of being congratulated about Miss Les- 
trange, I say’ shortly. “Ami such a bad lot alto- 
pther that people are surprised that a woman should 
have anything to do with me?” 

“Hot exactly that, no!” says Howard, after a mo- 
ments thought “ You are a good-looking fellow, the 
be^t dancer in the country, with the finest barytone voice 
in America, amateur or professional; add to^that your 
tohfl ^ Hwyer, and we have your sum 

Enllish^P^'lf®'" decidedly what the 

English call a ptrimental, but fortunately*^ Miss Les- 
tiange can afford to please herself,” 


ONI. 


13 


I don’t knoY^ why this should make me angry, hut it 
does. I have heard it often enough to be accustomed to 
it, but it strikes me unpleasantly now. 

I know I am not the sort of fellow that most parents 
would like their daughters to marry, because I have not 
got any money to speak of, but women always like me 
and I never was out of love since I can remember. 

is the most uncomfortable thing I know,’’ I say, 
huffily, to be told of one’s shortcomings in the matri- 
monial line. You all seem to be as anxious about my 
marrying well, as though I were a girl, whose future had 
to be provided for.” 

‘'Well, you know how the mother feels about it. Jack. 
You are her favorite, and she thinks a good woman would 
pull you together.” 

“And you think a wealthy one would pay my debts.” 

“ AYell, yes. A fellow with your propensity for gam- 
bling must have a rich wife to allow him to indulge his 
fancies.” 

That makes me mad. 

“Do you think I am cur enough to spend any woman’s 
money at a gaming-table?” I ask, my face growing a 
trifle wm’m. 

Howard shrugs his shoulders. 

It is a habit he acquired while in France, and is awfully 
exasperating sometimes. 

“ I never looked into the case sufficiently to think of 
it at all,” he says, “ but I have always beard that a fel- 
low who would gamble cared little where he got his 
money, so that it was obtained without fraud. 

“ It is a good thing you added that last clause,” I say, 
folding, my arms across my chest. 

“Why?” 

“ Because I should have knocked you down. 

Howard laughs. 

“ Don’t become a slugger,” he says, with quiet scorn. 
“ It is out of your line. Singing love songs to women is 

your forte.” . 

“lam glad it is that and not leading them to rum, I 

say, hotly. 

A deep scarlet suffuses my brothers face and a flend- 
ish look gathers in his eyes. 

Then he laughs, but it has a hoarse, discordant sound. 


14 


OKI. 


If you intended that for a shot, it has gone wide of 
the mark. There is no proof that Ethel Blackmoor 
killed herself on my account and I deny the fact in toto.” 

^^You will hardly deny the fact of the existence of 
Enid Longworth, 1 think, I say, staring at him in a 
meaning way. 

His face grows almost black with rage. 

What do you know of her?^^ he asks. 

Never mind what I know, but I think even you will 
admit that there are w^orse things in the world than 
gambling.-’^ 

"'Look here, Jack,^’ says my brother, laying his hand 
heavily upon my arm, my affairs are none of your busi- 
ness and I wonT have you prying into them. You and 
I have never had a quarrel in our lives, but I hope you 
understand that I will not brook interference from you,^^ 

I shake his hand off my arm rather roughly. 

" I have more right to dictate to you than you to me, 
for your offense is the more heinous of the two,” I say! 
" While we are on this subject I may as well tell you that 
I mean to save Enid Longworth from you if I can. It is 
infamous on your part to attempt her destruction, and it 
IS worse than cowardly on my part to allow you to suc- 
ceed.” 


I believe my brotlier will choke with rage in a minute. 

" If you dare interfere with me in any way,” he says 
slowly, with a deadly sort of glitter in his eyes, "you 
shall repent it!” ^ 

liberty not only to threaten but to do as 
you like, I say coolly. “ I have told you that I mean to 
save that poor girl if I can, and yon may depend upon it 
I Will keep my word.” ^ 

We look at each other for a moment in silence, then 
he laughs scornfully. 

" Are you in love with her yourself,” he asks, " that 
you are so anxious for her future? Truly not a pleasant 
prospect for Miss Lestrange.” ^ 

My anger rises again. 

“I am the gamester of our illustrious family,” I say 
With a sneer, and not the roue, thank God.” 

I turn on my heel and leave him. 

^oward and I had never quarreled in our lives, as he 


ONI l.~) 

said, and somehow I feel that there is more in this than 
appears on the surface. 

I have been intending to speak to him about Enid 
Longworth for a long time, but I did not mean to do it 
in this way, nor just at this time. 

I have the most unfortunate tongue in the world. It 
invariably says things at the wrong time and in the wrong 
way to gain the effect I have desired. 

All the same, I shall stick to my word and do what I 
said. 


CHAPTER III. 

We are having a ball at the Grange to-night, and much 
to my surprise Vefonique Gray is there. I did not know 
my mother knew her, but then all the country folk for 
miles around are here, so it is not to be wondered at after 
all. 

How pretty little Oni looks. She wears a simple white 
muslin, with a scarlet affair tied round her waist. Her 
neck and arms are bare, and she has a lovely red rosebud 
in her hair. 

I am dancing with Oni now, and Miss Lestrange, who 
is on a visit to my mother^ is with one of the neighbors. 

Howard is with Enid Longworth. 

She is rather a pretty, dainty-looking girl, with no 
character in her face, but she is too innocent to be with 
Howard. 

I have some woodland violets in my button-hole, and 
Veronique’s face flushes slightly as she notices them. 

I thought you were to adopt forget-me-nots, in re- 
membrance of me,^^ I say, with more tenderness than I in- 
tend, to her after I have asked her to danc^. 

Her face grows crimson. 

"" I don’t quite remember all the foolish things I say,” 
she answers lightly. 

I am disappointed. 

Her answer is so like that which a society girl would 
have given me. 

You see I have worn your violets,” I say. 

It is foolish, of course, but I feel a trifle, confused. 

You should not have done so,” she says quietly. 

Why?” I ask. 


10 


om. 


She does not answer, but her eyes wander in the direc- 
tion of Miss Lestrange. 

I know now. Some one has told her of my engage- 
ment. 


^^How beautiful she isP she says, as though speaking 
to herself. What is her name, Mr. Wilton.^” 

''Miss Ellrice Lestrange,"' I answer, and my voice 
sounds coldly. 

She notices it, as she does everything, and looks 
quickly at me. 

“You love her, do you not?” she asks, with the faintest 
little catch in her voice. 


"She is my betrothed wife," I say, but the confession 
does not come as easily to this little country girl as it 
would to a person in my own sphere. 

A little, rippling sigh comes through her scarlet lips. 

"I ought not to have asked you that, I suppose, but 
you offered to be my friend, you know, and I think I 
may presume a little with you, may I not?" 

She looks at me with a bewitching smile, showing all 
her pearly teeth, and I am positive I never saw a woman 
so dazzlingly beautiful in my life. 

Perhaps it is the charm lent by childhood. 

" You may always ask me what vou like," I say, un- 
able to prevent an answering smile, even if I had wished 
be oSenHei, I could never be 

offended with you." 

She looks puzzled, and I am sorry that I spoke quite so 


Our dance comes to an end, and to my chagrin Howard 
touches me on the arm. 

, " Will you not introduce me?" he says, in his most in- 
sinuating manner. 

I had rather be shot, but I can't say so. 

Certainly," I answer. Miss Gray, will you allow 
me to present my brother, Mr. Howard Wilton^' 

appropriates the 


And I turn away in disgust. 
I don t like to hear Howard 


compliment Oni, 


om. 


17 


She is too innocent and pure and pretty to listen to 
such stuff from lips like his. 

I have several waltzes with other girls, and when I look 
for Oni again Howard is still with her, and she seems 
pleased that it is so. 

I don^t know whether he has been there all that time 
or not, but I will not interrupt them. 

I am annoyed, and I take my hat and walk out into 
the bright moonlight. 

It is an exquisite night. The light from the moon 
makes long shadows of the trees, and the branches wave 
and bend in the gentle breeze. 

The music from the Grange comes to me out upon 
the lawn, and the shadows seem to be dancing to it. 
It makes me feel uncomfortable. 

I walk on, but not rapidly, going away from it. 

I am annoyed about Howard and Oni, and I can’t get 
the fact that I am so out of my head. If Howard should 
wrong that child, I 

Bosh! 

I chew the end of my cigar savagely, and dash into 
what we call the glen. 

It is a pretty place. A hollow with a lot of trees and 
wild flowers. 

As I get well into it, I hear voices. One of them 
sounds like Howard’s. 

It is strange, for I left him talking with Oni. 

I go forward to make sure, and there, in the moon- 
light, I distinctly see Howard and Ralph Dalton. 

Ralph Dalton is an old ex-sailor, for whom the sheriff 
has been looking, on account of some evil deed or other. 
I did not know he was in the neighborhood. 

He and Howard are evidently having high words. 

I don’t quite understand it. He may be intending 
some harm, and my brother may need my assistance. I 
will not show mj^self, but in case I am needed, I will be 
prepared. 

I go a little nearer and hear Ralph Dalton say: 

^^I have been intending to come to see you about this 
matter for some time, but this is the first time it has 
been safe. If I have to go to prison, you shall go there 
with me!” 


18 


ONI. 


I start back as though I had received a blow in the 
face. ^Then I listen eagerly for Howard's answer. 

^^How can I prevent your going to prison?" 

You can give me money to get away." 

How much do you want?" questions my brother. 

Five thousand to start." 

I have not got it. It is useless to ask." 

'' You have got it. Do you think I don't know how 
much your aunt left you, and all about it? I want five 
thousand not later than to-morrow night, and I must 
have it." 

"^My money is invested where I cannot get it," mv 
brother says. I swear it to you." 

\ eiy well, answers Dalton, in a hard, brutal tone: 

then you shall be tried for murder." 

I stagger against a tree, and I believe I almost lose 
. consciousness for a moment. 

When I can recover my own senses enough to look at 
twitching nervously, his eyes have 
that deadly glitter in them which I have seen once or 
twice before, and his hands are tightly clinched. 

y What proof could you offer?" he asked sneeringly 
but I can see the sneer is bravado, and Dalton can see 

tllclt cllSO. 

“The proof of my own eyes!” Dalton answers. “I 
saw you together upon the bridge above the old mill- 
dam; the night was as bright as this one, and there was 
no mistaking your identity. I heard her voice raised in 
almost prayer to you. She said, I remember her ve ly 
worfs ‘Howard, I beg of you not to desert ml now! 

'oyed “e;if that love is dead, have 

foi-TOu^^ Twf I sacrificed 

0 you. Then she threw her arms around your neck 

but you roughly pushed her away from you. ‘ I am feed 
of this nonsense,’ you said. ‘I have seen what t fool I 
have made of myself and it must stop.’ Then she turned 
'Hn°” “suited women will. ‘Very well 

Howard Wilton, she said, ‘desert me now if you dare’ 


ONI. 


19 


raged woman will dare do anything. What would I not 
dare to have revenge upon you for the cruel wrong you 
threaten to do me!^ Then she threw up her hands and 
uttered a piercing scream, for you had thrown out your 
hand and had given her a push. She went over into the 
stream, and you stood and watched her as she went over 
the unlocked dam, without a thought of pity for the 
misery and death you had brought to that poor young 
life. 

I want money, and money I must have, or the world 
shall know that it was not as a suicide that Ethel Black- 
moor died.^^ 

I can scarcely repress a cry of horror! 

Then I am stunned and stupefied. 

I scarcely hear the old man’s next words at the time, 
but they recur to me now. 

If I go to prison as a thief, you go there as a murderer, 
for I’ll blow on you, blast you, blow on you, and a hemp 
rope will be that poor child’s revenge!” 

I hear a horrible, fiendish cry, a terrible oath, and be- 
fore I can realize what is taking place, my brother has 
taken a knife from his clothing somewhere and plunged 
it into the old man’s heart. 

Seeming to return to his senses, he staggers back and 
relaxes his hold upon the knife without withdrawing it 
from the wound. The old man falls heavily and with- 
out a groan upon the earth. 

My brother looks at him with wild, staring eyes for 
one moment, then throwing his hands over his face, turns, 
and before I can speak he is gone. 

What I do for the next few seconds I never know. 

The air seems suddenly to have grown heavy and sick- 
ening. The moonlight is white and ghastly, and the 
shadows of the trees are millions of people. 

My brother, my father’s pride, is a murderer — worse, a 
double murderer. 

My God! How can I ever tell my poor old father of 
this disgrace upon his eldest and favorite son? 

I cannot and will not! 

Whatever the cost may be, Howard must be saved for 
my dear, dear old father’s sake. 

I find my way to the old man’s side, how, I never 


20 


ONI. 


know, I stand for one moment gazing down upon liim, 
then I draw the knife from the wound. 

I raise it up in the pale moonlight, fascinated by the 
strange, weird color the cold, mellow light lends to the 
horrible bright steel and the dark red blood. 

I put my hand to my head to recall my wandering 
senses. I raise my eyes from the terrible stain upon the 
steel, and there, standing before me, with wild, horrified 
eyes is — Oni Gray! 

Heavenly Father! how long has she been there, and how 
much does she know? 

Will I be able to save my brother from the scaffold after 
all ? 

^ Before I can speak, or much more than realize that she 
13 there, she falls against a tree and utters a shriek, so 
piercing and full of agony that it seems to me the country 
for miles around echoes with terror. 

She does not say the words, but it seems to me that her 
cry bears upon its bosom the mortal wail of: 

Murder! Murder! Murder! 

Yes black and horrible murder! 

Then the place seems to ‘ swarm with people. How 
tliey got there so quickly is a mystery and will always re- 
main one. 


lam m the same position, the knife clasped in one 
hand, the other raised to my head, in a dazed sort of way, 
wlien they come upon the scene. I seem to be in a 
trance. All power to speak or move has left me 

My eyes are fixed with a vacant stare upon Oni’s face. 
I make no resistance when some one takes the knife 
trom my hand. 

looYi^^aJ I know that they are 

looking at the knife, and I hear Dave Braham’s voice 
sounding hai'd a,nd far away, pronounce a name, 
it is J. H. Wilton. 

the\nife" hp*;r""V*° name on 

He, Have Braham, the sheriff of our countv near 
and sTys^: ' heavily on my shoulder 

Wilton, you are my prisoner!'" 
i-hat awakens me from my trance. 


ONI. 


21 


I wrench myself from his grasp and leap backward. 

^^With wliat am I charged?^'’ I ask so hoarsely that I 
scarcely recognize my own voice. 

“ The murder of Ralph Dalton,^^ Dave Braham answers 
coldly. 

Even if I accused Howard, who would believe me after 
this? 

The case is before me now in all its sickening detail, 
then Oni comes to my mind. 

I look at her! 

That glance is enough ! 

In her face I read only too plainly that she believes it 
all, I see the miserable, torturing, maddening conviction. 
I know that she too believes that I, Jack Wilton, am a 
murderer! 


CHAPTER IV. 

I AM in jail! 

How I got there I don^t know. I think I am ]ust 
coming out of my stupor. 

The coronePspnqiiest has been held, and I have been 
indicted by the grand jury for murder. 

The papers are full of it, and they are about the only 
things which find their way into my miserable little ceil. 

They tell how I, the scion of a noble and wealthy 
family, have degenerated from a well-educated lawyer, 
doing business in the great city of New York, into a 
gambler and Toue, and finally culminated my career by 
committing this terrible crime, for which not the slight- 
est excuse can be found. 

Great sympathy is expressed for my family; my mother’s 
illness is spoken of, caused by the shock of her son’s dis- 
grace; my father is pitied, and my brother Howard, '"a 
noble and well-loved gentleman,” is crushed because of 
this terrible dishonor. 

I laugh aloud over that. 

Then my engagement to Miss Lestrange is spoken of, 
and of her tenderness toward my mother. 

That softens my heart and makes me believe there may 
be some good in the world after all. 

My father gomes to see me almost daily, even my poor 


22 


ONI. 


old grandfather has been here, but my brother and my 
betrotlied have not honored me with a visit. 

My dear father is almost heart-broken. I deny any 
complicity in the crime, but I can give no account of my 
actions at the time. I cannot prove where I was when 
the murder was committed, nor how my knife happened 
to strike the fatal blow. 


My solicitor tells me what I know too well already, that 
unless I prove an aliM, only a miracle can save me. 

XI takes place, and I see no hope but 

that 1 shall be condemned. 

But with all my badness, notwithstanding I am a gam- 

^ which. Heaven be 

thanked! is not true I have faith in God and know that 
1 will not be punished for the crime. 

^ As I sit alorie, thinking it all over, the door of my cell 
IS thrown open, and for the first time my brother enters 
1 think the temptation which came to Cain was upon 
me as I looked at him first, but I controlled myself by 
set^ng my teeth hard and folding my arms. ^ 

He hardly raises his head until the turnkey has relocked 

and ~ -- 

I look at 

say coMlyf “0“ent, then I 

suspLleTmurdten”" to offer your hand to a 

“Yon are my brother!” he says huskily. 

hard votcc^ said,"" I answer in a dry, 

hetfer tw V ^ 1*®“? suspected of murdw 

cm* n/ “yself to be the brother of such a 

) f such a contemptible coward!” 

fsLrn neyfrwij^r eyes and looks at me. ' 
and terror. ^ ^ o'^Pression of mingled rage 

in^wsr^d^igTay’^f.^i 

^‘Ho floiihf I- liave killed him."" 

thing,” Answer^ “ buwr°“"*““- °"® ®ort of 

men and girls. Beware^of l*®®*^ ^*11^ ol*! 

who is able to cope with vom’^"" 


ONI. 


23 


I don't understand you 

He tries to infuse his v^oice with hauteur, but it is so 
blended wdth fear, that from a great, strong fellow like 
Howard it is perfectly absurd. 

It almost makes me laugh. 

I not only was a witness of your crime in the woods, 
but I heard every word of conversation that passed be- 
tween you and Ealph Dalton. 

My brother’s face is ghastly. 

He sinks into a chair, the only one in the room, and 
covers. his face with his hands. . 

If any eye upon earth had rested upon him at that mo- 
ment, without having heard my words, they would have 
read in his attitude bitter, cringing guilt. 

How I detested him at that moment! I don’t believe I 
hated him so much for his dastardly crime as for his des- 
picable cowardice. 

What do you propose to do?” he gasps at last. 

Stand my trial,” I answer laconically. 

And make no mention of the facts which have come 
to your knowledge?” he asks, looking at me in surprise 
and relief. - , 

^^What would be the use?” I ask, not caring to dis- 
guise the contempt I feel. I have no witnesses but 
those who believe me guilty, and as for you — pah! You 
have not sufficient generosity or manliness to clear your 
brother of your own crime. You would deny, and your 
word would be taken against mine.” 

"'And you will make no effort to save yourself?” he 
asks incredulously. 

" I shall certamly not plead guilty to the charge of 
murder, but I just as certainly shall not betray you.” 

The relief his face expresses is almost as ghastly in its 
intensity as his fear has been. 

"" Eem ember,” I go on, " it is from no chivalrous desire 
to screen my brother that I do this, but simply because I 
can only harm myself by making a story public which 
would not be believed, simply upon my assertion of facts. 
If any other saw the deed which I do not believe, they 
will come forward quickly enough and assert their knowl- 
edge. It is from no love for you that I am silent, for I 
loathe you. Heaven knows I did love you well enough, 
admired and respected you. You had your faults, we 


24 


ONI. 


all liave, but I was to a certain extent blind to them; but 
what I learned of you in the glen, and your infernal 
cowardice since, have appalled me. I curse the fate 
which put the same blood in my veins. I despise you as 
a coward, a seducer of innocence, and a murderer!^^ 

Howard leaps to his feet with a fiendish oath and 
makes a spring at my throat. 

His face is almost black with rage, great cords stand 
in his neck arid on his forehead, and his eyes have a 
maniacal stare. 

I am prepared for the movement and step quickly aside. 

He has made his spring with such force that, as he at- 
tempts to hurl himself upon me, he falls prostrate upon 
the floor. 

It is exasperating I know, but I cannot prevent a burst 
of merriment at his expense. 

He rises hurriedly and makes another lunge at me. I 
catch -his hand and with a quick turn which I have 
learned in athletic sports, pinion his arms from behind 
with one of my own. 

He sees that I am his master in strength, even though 
he is much larger tlian I, and he becomes calm at once. 

"'Let me go. Jack, "Mie says at last. "‘You have the 
advantage now.-’^ 

I release him and he continues! 

"" You have opened up warfare between us. I shall 
make no attempt to save you, and if by any chance you 
are saved from the gallows, you shall rue this day, so help 
me God ! ^ 


He goes to the door and calls the turnkey. 
""Forewarned is forearmed,"^ I said, with 
smile, as he leaves my cell. 


a sneering 


CHAPTER V. 

It was night! 

A calm, beautiful night, clear and balmy. The dark 
vaults of heaven are studded witli brilliant stars, which 
twinkle and glitter and smile. ’ 

I am sitting by the one little open window in niv cell 

w^denng what to-morrow will* bring forth. 7am a 

tiifle feverish and anxious, and cannot sleep, 
fiverything is as quiet as the tomb. So quiet that 


ONI. 


25 


the stillness is almost painful. The gentle movement of 
the leaves on the large old elm which shades my window 
can be heard as they are softly swayed by the night- 
breeze. 

I sit motionless, watching the stars, when, suddenly I 
am startled by a sound without. 

It is like a heavy breathing. 

I peer out, and by the light of the star| I see a dark 
object crawling along the branches of the qld tree, nearer 
and nearer my window. 

The foliage is so dense I can hardly see what it is. It 
is such a strange thing, that I almost hold my breath in 
expectation. 

When it is so near me that I can almost touch it, I see 
it is a woman. 

I am so surprised that I can scarcely restrain an excla- 
mation. My sudden movement startles her. 

She quickly raises her head and I recognize Oni Gray! 

Oni!^^ I exclaim, in such consternation that my voice 
must sound loud in the stillness. 

Hush!^'’ she says, crouching as far back as she can. 

She waits for a moment to see if I have been heard, 
then she^reaches over until her face is almost against my 
prison bars. 

Speak low,^^ she says, in a whisper. ^^It would 
mean ruin for both of us if I were seen here!” 

Be careful!'^ I say, forgetting my curiosity in my ter- 
ror lest she should fall. ‘" If you should fall it would be 
death 

“ I shall not fall,’" she says. “lam used to climbing, 
and am as sure as a cat. But don’t talk of me. I have 
come about yourself.” 

“What about me?” I ask. 

“ You promised to be my friend,” she says, hesitating, 
as if she hardly knew howto begin, “ and I don’t see how 
you'are going to keep your word here.” 

She has something she wishes to say to me, I know, 
from the way she has begun, but I cannot help her to ex- 
plain, as I am in the dark about what it is. 

“ What are your plans for to-morrow?” she asks, as I 
remain silent. 

“I have none,” I answer. “There is only one thing 
that can save mo — an alibi j and that I cannot prove.” 


26 


ONI. 


What is an alibi f* she asks. . 

Proving that I was in another place^ or in company 
with some one else at the time the crime was com- 
mitted.-’^ 

Yon cannot prove that, and unless you do you will 
be found guilty, is that it?^^ 

It looks like it/’ I answer. 

^'But they, must not send you to prison or hang you,'' 
she says, her beautiful face becoming white and drawn, 
''and I have come to help you, because you are going to 
help me by and by." 

" In what way can you help me, Oni?" I ask, feeling a 
great gladness and relief come over me. 

I hardly knew how small hope was before. 

" I have brought you a means of escape," she says, 
holding out a bag to me. " You can file those bars, and 
get away by means of the tree. You must get to work 
quickly, or it will be too late. Oh, take it, take it!" 

I draw back, and a cold, dead feeling seems to contract 
my heart. 

"No,"! say, firmly. "Only cowards and criminals 
take refuge in flight. I am neither one nor the other, 
iell me, Onp" I say, seizing her hands through the bars, 

do you believe me guilty of this crime?" 

I don't think I have ever been so thoroughly in earnest 
m my life. My very life seems to hang upon her an- 


But none comes! 

She hangs her head, and I know that she, this inno- 
cent, pure child believes I am a murderer. 

If I have doubted it before, it is clear enough now. 

It an arrow had pierced my very soul, it could not hurt 
me worse. 

I ^opdier hand as if I had been stung. 

hesitate,” she says; “ it is the only way. Oh, 
for God s sake take them,” she whispers, passionitely, 

I make no movement to receive them. “ Think of your 
parents and your betrothed wife, and of the disgrace 
doTti”°*^''‘°*'°‘^ bring upon them. You must 


“ Never!” I say, sternly. 


I answer again. Not even for your sake. 
Oh, Oni, child, child! I cannot bear that you should 
believe this of me. I think it is the hardest thing I have 
to endure 1^^ 

My head sinks upon the narrow window sill, and I 
startle myself by sobbing. 

I don4 quite understand myself. I cannot surely be 
in love with this girl, and yet Avhy is it that she has this 
power to hurt me? 

She stretches out her little hand and lays it gently 
upon my head. 

am so sorry for you,” she says, softly. Why will 
3 ' oil not let me help you?” 

Not in that way,” I say, kissing her hand and re- 
leasing it. You must go, child. It would not do for 
you to be found here, and we may be overheard.” 

You will not take them?” she says, sadness and en- 
treaty fighting for mastery in her voice. 

No,” I answer, firmly but tenderly. You are the 
only one who has tried to serve me in this accursed af- 
fair, and I thank you. I will never forget this night, 
Oni. It is not your fault, little girl, that I cannot ac- 
cept your means. Good-night now, and God bless you!” 

Great tears are rolling down her cheeks, but she an- 
swers, brokenly: 

I will save you yet, in spite of everything!” 

Then she turns and slowly retraces her way along the 
friendly branch. 

I watch her until every trace of her is out of sight. 

Poor little girl, how good she is! And she thinks me 
guilty, too. That is the strange part of it. 

AVhat should she care what became of such a dastardly 
murderer. 

Then her expression, I will save you 3 'et.” ^ 

Ah, well, that was only the pitying cry of a child s 
heart. ^ 

If she only believed me innocent I could bear it better. 
I don^t know why, but it seems to me that it would be so 
sweet a thing to have this pure, beautiful child s trust. 

Her words come back to me again, I will save you 
yet,” in spite of everything. 

Why do they keep ringing in my head? 


28 


ONI. 


To-morrow will tell it all. I shall not belong in doubt 
now. 

I wish she would not be in court. 

My God! I had forgotten. 

She is a witness against me! 

She! this child whom I have learned to love with all 
my heart, a witness against me! 

It is useless to try to conceal it from myself longer. 
It is the first real love of my life. 

And she is to be the strongest witness for the prosecu- 
tion. 

For the first time in my life I know what sutfering is 

God of heaven, what use is there for a hell hereafter! 


CHAPTER VI. 

The day of my trial dawns clear and beautiful. 

The brightness is distasteful to me. It seems to mock 
my misery. 

I look out at the old elm, and try to realize that it 
was only last night that that pure, exquisite face looked 
in upon me and spoke to me, but it seems fifty years ago. 

I recall the scene with something of the indistinct- 
ness with which an old man remembers his early child- 


I bathe my face in cool water—I have not been un- 
dusty ‘L’rror. 

Wn'nnl" knocked about, like a fellow who had 

been out all night, but my face certainly does not give 
evidence of the mental agony I have endured. ^ 

Is love an episode in the life of man? 

and death are episodes, possibly, and yet my 

r r^vTc t. ® “nre, for to me h meaL my 

lite, my death, my soul, my eternity! ^ 

After wh^ seems to me hours of needless delay I am 
conducted »the court and placed in the prisoner’s’ b^ 
Heaven only knows my humiliation and suffering L T 

" iw'E " pVSSIj:- 


ONI. 


29 


My eyes are riveted upon a little pale face at the side 
of the courtroom. 

Just once she allows her eyes, those large, luminous, 
dark eyes, to wander in my direction, then quickly lowers 
them as she sees mv gaze is fastened upon her. 

I try to put my ‘'attention upon the evidence in the 
case, but my mind wanders and I cannot remember ex- 
actly what has been said. 

A number of witnesses are examined, who simply 
testify to hearing the scream and finding me in the posi- 
tion I have tried to describe. 

It is not until after recess has been taken that Vero- 
nique Gray is called to the stand. 

For a moment the little crowded courtroom grows dark 
before me, but by a great effort I pull myself together. 
I put my hand out upon the rail to steady myself and 
keep from falling from my chair. 

She has to pass me, in order to reach the stand, and, 
as she does so, she staggers, and throwing out her hand 
in a helpless sort of way it falls upon mine. 

I clasp it quickly, it is as cold as a stone. 

My heart aches for her now, not for myself. 

She believes me guilty, but, ah God! how hard it is 
for her to swear my life away, I can read only too 
plainly. 

Do your duty, little one,'' I whisper as she recovers 
herself and passes slowly on. 

As she takes her place in the witness stand and the 
oath is administered, she raises her pale face for one mo- 
ment and a faint, shadowy smile crosses it, as she looks 
at me. 

The preliminaries are gotten oyer. Her pretty, rip- 
pling voice.is unsteady, and a frightened, hunted look 
comes into her face, but she answers her questions 
calmly. 

What an effort the child is putting forth, and how 
sorry I am for her. 

'' You were at the reception given by Mr. AVilton the 
night of the murder, were you not?" 

I was." 

How long had you known the prisoner at the bar 
when you met him that night?" 

I met him first on the forenoon of the same day." 


Who introduced him to you?’’ 

No one. I met him by chance in the woods. 

There is a little ripple here^ but it is quickly sup- 
pressed. 

And he tried to form your acquaintance without the 
usual formality?” 

This is said sneeringly, and as if I had meant this 
beautiful child a wrong, but Oni is equal to it. 

Her face flushes, but she answers calmly. 

^ He did form my acquaintance without the formality 
of an introduction, but it was under circumstances which 
justifled it. He startled me, and, as any gentleman would 
have done, he apologized.” 

""Did he then pass on and leave you?” 

""No.” 

""Ah!” 


My blood boils. I could have knocked him down for 
his ^brutal insinuation had I been at liberty. 

""It was your scream which attracted the people when 
the murder was discovered, was it not?” 

"" Yes.” 


.t**® prisoner’s position at the time the 
Others came up?” 

to his\ead 


"" Ghastly expression of his face?” 

coil shakes her slender frame as that horrible 

scene recurs to her memory. 

""Did you see the blow struck 
No, sir!” 

‘‘^oner glen.” 

""N— no, sir!” 

this mean? 

"" Mr! W^lton^^? were with?” 

Mr. Wilton?” 

I he — prisoner!” 

My God, the child is lyingt 


ONI. 


31 


l ean scarcely realize what she is saying. There is a 
decided sensation in the courtroom. 

Every drop of blood seems to leave my body, and my 
face is strained and eager to catch her every word. 

Then her words return to me: L will save you yet, in 
spite of everything. 

Why cannot I stop her, and prevent her perjuring her- 
self in this way? 

You were with the prisoner, you say. Will you tell 
us when he left you and under what circumstances? 

He did not leave me. We came upon the murdered 
man together!” 

You mean you were with him when the murder was 
discovered ?” 

That is it.” 

Then you will swear that the prisoner at the bar is 
innocent?” 

I swear it.” 

‘^Will you tell the court your object in not making 
these facts known at the time of the arrest?” 

The poor child is evidently not prepared for this ques- 
tion. 

It stuns her, and she is silent. 

Her lips seem to have grown cold and numb. 

What will she say? 

She makes a valiant effort and murmurs, I realized 
that — my — our positions were — compromising and — my 
reputation ” 

She breaks off and hangs her head. 

I am in agony. 

What will the world think of her, my pure, unselfish 
darling. 

I can endure it no longer, I rise to my feet and begin 
to speak in an incoherent way, but am peremptorily 
ordered by the court to be silent. 

She raises her head and begins again. 

I thought no one would belieye it of him, and I need 
not ” 

That will do,” says the judge kindly. ^^You need 
give no evidence against yourself.” 

There is a brief cross-examination, and Oni hurries 
from the court. 

I watch her closely, and I see women draw back as she 


33 


ONI. 


passes. Ye gods! women who are not worthy to touch 
her in her purity and innocence. 

My trial is, of course, virtually ended. 

The jury does not even retire, but finds me ^^Not 
Guilty. 

I can hardly wait until the formalities are over to quit 
the court. 

I hurry through the crowd waiting to congratulate me, 
and notwithstanding I know my sick mother is awaiting 
me, I hurry on to Ivy Cottage. 

An old woman is sitting before the door, smoking a 
pipe. 

""Where is Oni?’’ I question, not stopping to wish her 
good-afternoon. 

"" I don't know," she says, with an ugly snarl. 

""Is she at home?" 


"" No, she ain't, the jade! I've tried to keep her decent 
and make somethin' outen her, but for her to git up be- 
fore a crowd and tell of her carry in' on with you was 
more than I could stand, and I beat her. It was the first 
time I done it, and she got out. But she'll come back 
when she gets hungry. No fear o' that." 

I can scarcely keep my hands from the old witch's 
throat, but with an imprecation I turn on my heel and 
walk away. 


I go through the glen on my way home, hoping I 
find her, but I do not see her, then I return to 
my -mother. 


may 

my 


T / ^ot much remembrance of the conversation, but 
1 learn that Howard has suddenly gone to New York 
I cannot account for it, but a horrible, sickening fore- 

T' cannot explain to myself what 
I think nor why I should think anything. 

Th? ttvB? station. 

Ihe ticket agent and others congratulate me unon 

my narrow escape, but I cut them short. 

“ IMf arhou" ^ ' 

My brother went on it " 

""Yes." 

he'a&l ask” ^ “Was 


ONL 


33 


"'No. That handsome litte girl of yours was with 
him.^^ 

God of Heaven! 

I forgot the insult offered my darling in the contem- 
plation of this awful fate opened before her. 

Gone with Howard! 

Why could I not have seen her beautiful face dead be- 
fore me. 

She has saved me, I must and will save her. 

"What time does the next train leave I ask. 

" To-morrow at five."*^ 

It seems an eternity. 

To-morrow at five! 

How can I ever live through it. 

Pray Heaven, I may not be too late! 


CHAPTER VII. 

PuLLmG my hat over my eyes I walk out of the station. 
As I do so, a smothered laugh follows me, but I am too 
much preoccupied to take any notice of what would other- 
wise have infuriated me. 

I step into my dog-cart and mechanically take up the 
reins. 

My pretty little thoroughbred raises her head and starts 
off. As we pass or attempt to pass the corner of the 
station, a heavy road wagon is coming the other way. 

We, the teamster and I, see each other at the same 
time, and in our endeavors to rein up, our horses collide. 
My little mare, trembling and frightened, rears upon her 
hind feet, and in throwing herself forward, breaks the 
check rein. 

If she had only broken her neck instead! 

I try to pull her up, but I might as well undertake to 
open my arms and gather in the breath of the cyclone. 

She rears and plunges with terrible force for a few 
moments, then dashes forward with the speed of the 
wind. 

The people of the station and the few surrounding 
houses are watching now with breathless interest. Some, 
indeed^ make a futile attempt to assist me. 


84 


ONI. 


Before I can divine her intention, my mare swerves to 
the right and dashes down the railroad track. 

My great danger is now well before my mind. Fifty 
yards from the station, a deep gully is on either side of 
the track, extending for a mile or more down the road. 
'J’he cart is light and the rough sleepers of the road cause 
it to bound like a rubber ball. If I am thrown out— oh 
little Oni, God help you! 

Suddenly a voice, hoarse with apprehension, rises above 
the din of my mare’s clanging hoofs and the rattle of the 
wheels, a voice whose words send a rush of mad blood 
whirling into my brain, which seems to set my pulse on 
fire. 

For the first time in my life, I know the meaning of 
fear. 

The voice rises higher and higher and is repeated by 
every tongue, until it seems to me that every swift foot- 
fall of my mare repeats its cadence of horror. 

The five-thirty freight is coming round the curve.’^ 

After the first blinding, bewildering terror passes, I 
raise my head to face my danger, and see in what way I 
can make an effort to save myself. 

But it is too late! 

Not twenty yards ahead of me the clouds of black 
smoke are rising up in circling masses toward the bright, 
smiling heavens, the huge, majestic form of the locomo- 
tive is just coming into full view, as it swings gracefully 
around the curve. 

The sight appalls me, and seems to numb my brain. 

Before I can think of anything, there is a frightful 
crash, and I am thrown violently into the air. 

Suddenly my head strikes a sharp object, my vision 
fades, and, with a horrible feeling of despair, my life 
seems to go out. 

The last thought that I remember, which surged into 
my bewildered brain, was: 

Oh, Oni, little darling, surely the God of the father- 
less ” 

Mhen I again open my eyes to a realization of the ter- 
rible danger through which I have passed, it is just 
forty-eight hours later. 

Forty-eight hours! 


om. 


My God, what a frightful calamity maj not have oc- 
curred in that time! 

But I must not consume time in thinking, I must go 
at once. 

As I move my head a faintness seizes me, but I shake it 
off, and attempt to raise myself in bed. 

A terrible pain seems to strike clear through me, and 
I sink back with an awful groan. 

A little, cool hand is laid upon my head, and a slow, 
aristocratic voice says: 

‘^Don^t try to move. Jack — your leg is broken, 

It is my betrothed. Miss Ellrice Lestrange. 

It is an extraordinary thing, but I had forgotten her ex- 
istence. 

I cannot repress a shudder which passes over me. The 
sound of her voice seems to bring to me the oppressive 
fragrance of a ballroom, with its hot-house exotics, and 
the glare of gas-lights. Then the memory of bluebells, 
of sweet woodland violets, and of babbling spring 
brooks comes over me, and I close my eyes and smile 
into the lovely brown eyes which my imagination brings 
before me. 

Then the sweet, peaceful expression of that exquisite 
face changes, the laughing, witching eyes are strained 
and frightened, the rosebud lips are pallid and drawn, the 
beautifully tinted face is white and agonized. Her little 
brown hands are extended, and the lovely spring flowers 
are shaken by rough wintery winds as the rippling, silvery 
voice speaks to me in anguish. 

‘^Oh, Jack, my friend for whom I have sacrificed so 
much, why have you deserted me?’’ 

I make another ineffectual attempt to rise, but Ell- 
rice gently pushes me back upon the pillow once 
again. 

1 tell yon, you must be still. Jack. Your leg is 
broken and your head is badly cut. I am expecting the 
doctor every moment and he can tell you better than I. 
Your mother is in the next room. Shall I call her?” 

No,” I say, laying my hand upon hers. Don’t call 
her, but tell me how long I am likely to be confined to 
this bed.” 

I don’t know,’^ she answers, kindly. You know how 


86 


ONL 


long it usually takes for a broken leg, and I suppose your 
head will depend much upon yourself.” 

Do you mean that I have got to stay in this room 

until It is impossible! Impossible, I tell you. I 

should die!” 

^^You must calm yourself, dear,” she says, gently. 

Your cheeks are burning now and you will make your- 
self worse.” 

'‘I cannot help it,” I say wildly. ^^It must be done. 
I must go, if I have to crawl there.” 

I try again to raise myself, but the pain is too strong 
for me and I sink back, and for the first time realize 
that I am powerless, utterly helpless. 

As the awful situation of that poor innocent child 
strikes me and my inability to assist her in any way, of 
how it is my fault she is in this terrible position, and 
for my sake she is sacrificing herself, a rebelling against 
the decrees of Fate comes over me which is almost in- 
supportable in my weakened condition. 

Unable to control myself, I throw my hands over my 
miserable face and burst into bitter, passionate weeping. 
It is the first time I have cried since I was a boy, and the 
sound frightens me. 

Don t. Jack;’ says my betrothed wife, in surprise 
and anxiety. 

Finally my noisy grief ceases, and a trifle ashamed of 
myself, I remove my hands from my face and look at her. 

She IS quite pale; her light golden hair is pushed back 
from her clear, fair brow, and her eyes, usually as blue 
as a summer sky, are clouded and pitiful. 

Forgive me, Ellrice,” I say, taking her hand in both 
my own. I am an idiot to go on like this, but my po- 
sition IS an unfortunate one. Have— have ’’—stammer- 
ing and halting as I remember what an unpleasant task I 

trill y^tr ^ evidence in the 

Her face flushes crimson. 

spelk ?f it ® 

did ^ 


om: 87 

I press her hand gratefully. 

But the other part?"’ I question. 

Her flush deepens. 

^ ‘MVliat was there to think?’’ she says, slowly. No 
girl would so criminate herself unless she spoke the 
truth.” 

And you are angel enough to forgive me, believing 
me to have done you that wrong?” I say, somehow feel- 
ing guilty and ashamed. 

""No; lam very far from an angel. I do forgive you, 
because I have loved you well, but you could never be 
the same to me again. I did not mean to tell you until 
you are out of this, but I suppose it is just as well.” 

I am wonderfully relieved, and I am afraid she will 
see it. 

""She came to me,” fiancee goes on, ""the night 
before the trial, and begged me, in a wild, incoherent 
way, to save you. I told her there was nothing I could 
do. Then she spoke to me about an alihi, and said I 
might swear you were with me. But that would not 
have been the truth, and I told her so. I never saw such 
grief and agony in my life. I thought from her manner 
that it was some romantic attachment she had formed for 
you, but.I see now it was to save herself.” 

""Nothing of the kind!” I say fiercely, raising myself 
upon my elbow and looking intently at her. "" Veronique 
Gray is the purest thing God ever made. She is incapa- 
ble of any wrong.” 

"" Do you mean she swore upon her oath to a direct 
lie?” says Miss Lestrange, with fine scorn. 

Then it occurs to me that now is hardly the time to 
vindicate that sweet child’s reputation, but I have not 
the courage to allow any one to believe so falsely of her, 
even for a moment. 

"" I cannot explain it to you, Ellrice, not yet at least,” 
I say after a pause, ""but I swear to you upon my honor, 
that Oni Gray is as innocent of any wrong as you are.” 

She draws herself up proudly. 

"" I beg that you will draw other comparisons,” she 
says haughtily. 

""Very well,” I say hotly. ""I assert that she is as 
pure in thought and deed as my own mother, and the 
noblest act of self-sacrifice that ever a woman made she 


OKI. 

made for me. The loss of life was nothing in comparison 
with placing an unstained reputation in jeopardy as she 
has done; and I swear before God that I will vindicate 
her honor, and save her from the horrible fate which 
threatens her, or I will die in the effort.^^ 

I have grown terribly excited and my face must be 
crimson. 

Calm yourself, Jack,^^ says Miss Lestrange kindly but 
coldly. There is more in this than I had thought. I 
don't ask you to explain, as I suppose you would do so if 
you cared to, but I offer’ you the freedom which you evi- 
dently crave, in order to better carry out your quixotic 
idea of reclaiming innocence and defending youth." 

There is quiet scorn in her voice, which maddens me. 
I see she does not believe what I have said. 

I accept my freedom," I say after a pause, in which 
I have had difficulty in controlling my temper, and I 
thank you. I hope some time to be able to prove to you 
and to the whole world that what I have said is truth, but 
until then we will say no more upon the subject, if you 
please." 

You will prove your words by marrying this — girl?" 
she asks, her eyes flashing fire. 

^^If she will accept me and my life-long devotion, I 
will," I answer reverently. 

Miss Lestrange laughs. 

Heroics are becoming to you. Jack. You look won- 
derfully well with that rapt expression upon your flushed 
face, but I wouldn’t carry them into real life if I were 
you. It would not be a nice thing for the world to say 
that you had married a woman of whom your hr other had 
grown tueary.^^ 

Gracious Heaven, how my blood leaps! 

That is false!" I say through my set teeth. ^"If a 
man had said that I should have throttled him." 

^ Miss Lestrange laughs again, a low, hard, unwomanly 

“You will find plently of men to say it, but I would 
not advise you to begin " throttling,' as you might have 
the entire community to oblige. Good-bye, Jack, I am 
going to leave you now; but, before I go, let me give you 
a little advice. Championing women of doubtful reputa- 
tion IS very pretty m theory, but bad when one contom- 


om. 


plates putting it in practice and marrying them. Every- 
one knows how, since making her shame public in the 
courtroom, she has broken her poor old mother’s heart 
by leaving Virginia with your brother. I am sorry on 
Howard’s account, as he is altogether too good a fellow to 
bring this talk upon himself for so worthless a creature as 
Veronique Gray.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The three weeks which followed my accident passed 
like a nightmare. My most earnest sympathy will always 
remain with those poor unfortunates who were doomed to 
wait upon me. 

Miss Lestrange, too noble to desert my mother in her 
trouble, remained at the Grange, and though she was fre- 
quently with me, though she read to me and sang to me, 
by a tacit understanding we let the subject of Oni Gray 
remain silent. 

But I think I grew to hate Ellrice in those few weeks. 
Her total lack of all womanly compassion for a suffering 
sister, repelled and disgusted me. She, in her flaunted 
virtue, could find no sympathy for the great and mag- 
nanimous soul of that pure child, whose very faults were 
emblems of innocence and chastity. 

Notwithstanding the fuming and expostulation of my 
physician, I determined to leave for New York, though 
upon two crutches. 

My doctor called it an attempted suicide. 

Better death, I told him, than a mad-house. 

It was about twelve o’clock, on an exquisite day, that 
our train arrived in New York, but so maddened was I 
with doubt and dread, that the beauties of nature failed 
to attract me. It seemed to me that the cars had come 
at a snail’s pace. 

Giving an order to have my baggage sent to my 
rooms, I selected a carriage, and ordered the driver to 
make all possible speed to my office. 

My idea was to consult my partner and friend, Reginald 
Pierrepont, upon the best way to proceed. At the same 
time 1 did not care to allow him, for Oni’s sake, to know 
too much of the circumstances. 

Pierrepont was also a friend of Howard’s^ and ther^ 


40 


ONI. 


was a possibility of his knowing my brother's where- 
abouts. 

Fortunately I met none of my friends in going to the 
office, the only familiar face being that of the elevator- 
boy. 

I find Reg busy at his desk when I enter, but he throws 
aside pens, paper and everything and seizes both of my 
hands in a friendly grasp which warms my heart, and 
acts like an elixir upon my fagged nerves. 

Why, old fellow," he says, taking my crutches, and 
pushing me into a large easy-chair, why didn't you tele- 
. graph me that you were coming so that I could have met 
you ?" 

I preferred to surprise you," I answer, with a strained 
sort of smile. You know I was always fond of my little 
dramatic effects." 


What is the matter. Jack?" says Reg, kindly. A 
broken leg could not have knocked you up like this. You 
are not letting that miserable affair of the murder trouble 
you, are you ?" 

"^^No," I answer, ^'but that was the beginning. You 
don't believe that story about the murder, do you?" a trifle 
wistfully. 

Reginald Pierrepont grins broadly. 

J think the evidence was a little too much in your 
favor for any one to believe that," he says. 

I had rather you would believe me to be a thief, a liar, 
a murderer than that," I say, hotly. 

ing ^ laugh- 


•+ ^ I say, becoming more ex- 

cited. That poor, ignorant child, in her attempt to 
save me from punishment for a crime which I never com- 
mitted^, has stained a life as pure as an angel's, and ruined 

ri ilrr- is madd S 

of any gtdU!° 

connfnponto'r ^ ^ 

grlvely." >’0"-” h® asks, 

thit^if I would have allowed her to do 

that, If I had knownt Heaven! I did not believe that 


ONI. 


41 


any one could think so badly of me as that! After she 
had said what she did, there was nothing for me to do 
but be Silent. If I had denied it, who would have be- 
lieved me? She would have been disgraced just the 
same. She would have left home, and no hand upon 
earth would have been held forth to save her, fori would 
have been powerless to assist her. The bridge across the 
span of life is too rickety and unsteady for such tender 
feet as hers to tread, and it would have shivered and 
splintered beneath her, and she would have fallen shriek- 
ing through it.^’ 

Reg reaches out his hand, and grasps mine again. 

I am glad to hear you speak like that,^^ he says, 
earnestly. There are 7'oues enough in the world to dis- 
pense with you, and it hurt me to think that you had 
entered the contest. The circumstantial evidence in the 
case was terribly against you, was it not?^^ 

Terribly!’^ I answered, shortly. 

Jack,’’^ says my friend, laying his hand gently upon 
my arm and looking me steadily in the eye, do you 
know who committed that murder?^' 

Yes, I know,"’ I answer, after a brief pause, "" but 
don’t question me about it, for I cannot tell even you.” 
You are a noble fellow, old friend,” says my partner. 

And you may always count upon me.” 

Don’t give me more credit than I deserve,” I say, 
shaking my head dejectedly. "" I could prove nothing. 
By the way! have you seen Howard?” 

^^Yes.” 

Gracious Father, how my heart leaped! I don’t think 
I ever realized before how strongly the spirit of revenge 
had taken possession of me. 

I can almost feel my hands upon his throat now, and 
if he has harmed her the reckoning between us will be to 
the death ! 

My emotions are so strong that I cannot find voice to 
speak for several moments. When I do it is scarcely 
recognizable in its strained hoarseness. 

Where?” is all I can manage to articulate. 

Pierrepont looks at me intently for a moment. 

He is a man of wonderful perception, and is a keen, 
capable laAvyer. I place my hand instinctively over my 
face to hide its expression from him. 


4ii 


ONI. 


You are too late. Jack,'' he says, gently. You will 
forgive me for having read your secret, but you are a bad 
actor, old fellow. I hope you know how safe you are 
with me." 

I grasp his hand. Somehow I am glad he knows. It 
seems to relieve me in a measure. 

Tell me all you know," I say, with almost breathless 
haste. 

^‘It is very little. I was passing the Metropolitan 
Hotel about three weeks ago and I saw Howard alight 
from a carriage. Of course I went to speak to him to ask 
of you, but he seemed constrained and uneasy, altogether 
different from his usual debonair self. Then I saw that 
there was a lady " 

I forget my broken leg and would have leaped to my 
feet, if Keg had not divined my movement and pushed 
me back in time. 

‘'Was that " he begins and hesitates. 

“That was the girl who saved me from the gallows," 
I say in terrible excitement. But I must go there now. 
I must know the truth at once." 

“ It is useless," says Reg, pushing me bade in my 
chair again. They are not there now. I called and they 
had gone. But he is in the city. I saw him yesterday, 
but he was in a carriage, and I could not speak to him." 

He must be found, but how?" I say slowly in mv 
great disappointment. *' 

“Detectives," says my partner laconically. 

“To be sure," I answer. “ What a fool I have grown. 
It seems to me that my brain is paralyzed." 

“Why don't you tell me the whole affair. Jack? I can 
keep you better when I know what I am doing, than 

rn? ^ work comparatively in the dark." 

•f] ^ everything, from my first meeting 

with Oni, down to the present. 

never have believed it of Howard,” he says 
when I have finished. “Good heavens, how little we 

for°the^ tw \ criminals 

vet Tfirt 1 can’t tell an honest man 

mners tTp’n ^ ^ P"t n^^e these 

caifd^Yn the derecliffhnT’’ '^® 

lie liands me a batch of letters, and I open them me- 


ONI. 


48 


clianically and glance over them. There is nothing that 
interests me particularly, until I open a square, stylish en- 
velope, and find inside an invitation to a reception given 
by Miss Grace Melrose. 

Miss Melrose is a young lady of great wealth and some 
beauty to whom Howard has been paying court and 
whom I know he is anxious to mapy.^ 

He has no idea of my presence in New York, of that I 
am pretty sure, as my departure was totally unexpected, 
and this reception will be given to-night. 

Decidedly, I will attend it, and if my honorable brother 
is present, there will be a reckoning to the death between 
him and me. 


CHAPTER IX. 

I MUST look very absurd as I enter the drawing-room, 
about eleven oYlock at night, with my evening dress and 
those two atrocious-looking sticks under my arms. 

Miss Melrose, a tall, graceful, queenly blonde, welcomes 
me cordially. 

So awfully pleased to see you, Mr. Wilton, she says 
kindly, We heard of your accident and feared you 
would not be here. You don’t know how we should have 
missed your beautiful voice this evening. 

^aiow kind you are,” I say, bending over her hand as 
much as my wooden supporters will allov\ “ I almost 
feared to present myself after my recent misfortune. 

Ugh!” she says, with a pretty little shudder. Don t 
mention such awful things in a scene like this. You sha 1 
come some day when I am quite alone and tell me all 
about it, will you not?” 

It is hardly a pleasant story, but if you care to Hear 
it, of course your will is law,” I answer gallantly, never 
intending to tell her anything about it. . 

^aiow is Ellrice?” asks my fair hostess, with a side- 
long look at me out of her bright blue 
' ^^She w.as in excellent health when I left,” I answer 

nonchalantly. , , i, 

I wonder you had the courage to leave her. loui 
brother Howard has told me how devoted she has been 
to YOU since you were thrown from your carnage and so 
hurt.^’ 


44 


ONI. 


Yes/’ I say, putting a tremendous restraint upon my- 
self in order to hide my feelings. WJien did you see 
Howard ?” 

Yesterday. Didn’t he tell 3^011?” 

""Ho. I have not see him. I only arrived to-day, and 
he does not know it.” 

"" Indeed?” she says, smiling kindly. ""I shall appre- 
ciate your coming to-night all the more.” 

"" Do you expect him to-night?” I ask, trying valiantly 
to appear indifferent. 

""Oh, 3"es, decidedly! We should be quite an incom- 
plete gathering without him.” 

Her pretty eyes grow dark with feeling as she speaks 
of him, and from my very soul I pity her. If there were 
only some means by whicli I could save her the suflerins 
that 1 know is awaiting her! ° 

“If you see him before I do,” I say a trifle unsteadily, 
don t mention my presence to him. It will be a pleas- 
ant surprise for him to meet me when he thinks me so ill 
and at home. 

vntr#"”! ^ bitterness creeping into my 

and dishonor is terrible to me. 

Miss Alelrose fails to notice it fortunately, not haying 
Oni s quick perceptive faculties. ^ 

“How fondyouareof of each other,” she says smil- 
like to hear you and’ your 

meiiffi T f ® ®®“traot my heart for a mo- 

liyious to it. ®’'® perfectly ob- 

otbw/“ests”Isa^l'?l^?^*"f/°"^°® Vour 

“ly/oan^/them^out my crutches, 

yo^all Haro two, and wUl^ts SSe in 

ImtSlil wVi/- h?g!u«g. 

Rnswer*- — ' ■ 


IS with it troubled heart that I 


ONI, 


45 


Something better than Howard/^ 

Is there anything better?’^ she asks, with a vivid 
blush. 

Before I know what I am saying, I have put a horrible 
thought which strikes me into words. 

You — you are not engaged to him?” I say, half in 
interrogation, half assertion. 

Why do all women make confidants of you. Jack? 
Yes, we have been engaged since yesterday.” 

I stand staring at her in a dazed sort of way, which 
must surprise her. 

Are you not going to congratulate me?” she asks at 

last. 

Yes,” I answer when I can command my voice, but 
there is no warmth in my tone. I — I congratulate you 

I suppose, but oh” — fervently — I would to God he 
were worthy of you.” 

Under the circumstances I am ashamed of my earnest- 
ness, ashamed: of my lack of self-control. 

She looks at me startled, for a moment, then laughs 
in a joyous, happy way. 

‘^If you want to be intense, Jack, play the old role of 
loving brother. There is no one upon earth of whom 
Howard is not worthy. What man in the whole world 
is so handsome, so good, so noble and true as Howard?” 

What one, indeed!” I answer stupidly, half stunned 
by her vehemence. 

‘ ' There, that is like you again. I am very happy to- 
night, Jack. But good-bye for the present. I am neg- 
lecting all my other guests.” 

She flits away from me, leaving me with a feeling I can 
scarcely describe. 

If Howard comes here, what am I to say? how am I 
to meet him? . 

This fair girl, for whom I have formed a great liking 
and respect, must be considered; but what is to be done? 
He shall not escape me until he has rendered up his ac- 
count to me, that I swear! 

Oh, if Reginald Pierrepont were only here to advise 
me! I feel so incapable of acting for myself, so utterly 
stunned and unnerved. 

How I get through the circle of friends who gather 
around wOj find ansAvev the questions put to me intelU- 


46 


ONL 


gently, I know not, but I suppose I do it, though a mo- 
ment after I might have met the same people without 
knowing I had ever spoken to them. 

Instinctively I make my way to the library to be alone, 
and, if possible, control myself and decide what to do. 
Fortunately it is deserted, and I throw myself into a 
chair, and brush the hair back from my damp forehead. 

A pretty little morning* room is at the left of the 
library, separated by handsome portieres. 

As I lean my head back to rest my weary brain, and 
try to collect my faculties, a little baby^s cooing laugh 
comes to me through the only partially-drawn curtains, 
bringing a feeling of peace and quiet. 

I close my eyes and smile softly, that a little thing like 
that could so soothe a man^s troubled brain, when sud- 
denly, another sound reaches me which seems to stop my 
heart’s pulsations for a second, then blinds me with the 
terrible whirl of blood that rushes madly through my 
veins. 

It is a low, Spanish, musical voice that I hear, whose 
every tone is poetry, and love, and flowers, and the words 
are: 

Mi linda muchachita,** 

For one brief instant a picture of a dark, beautiful 
head resting on woodland violets passes through my 
mind, then with a long drawn sigh of ecstasy of which I 
would have believed myself incapable, I seize my crutches, 
spring to the door, and throwing the curtains aside, I 
fling out my arms and with almost a burst of rapture I 
cry: 

Oni, my darling!” 

The lovely, startled face raised to mine is not that of 
my lost one, but so exactly alike, that I stand almost 
petrified, gazing at her with open mouth and eyes in 
speechless amazement. 


CHAPTER X. 

The girl who stands before me is a magnificent woman, 
dressed m amber brocade and black. I have never seen a 
specimen of ballroom splendor, but her 
1 innocent but intelligent expression 

combroed w;tlj the vivid colodug ot field poppies, Her 


47 


• ONI. 

splendid arms and shoulders are bare, but glitter with 
diamonds of almost fabulous yalue. 

I am dazzh d and bewildered for a moment, then my 
senses seem to return to me. 

I — I beg your pardon, I say, stammering painfully. 

Your voice is. so perfectly like that of a — a — friend of 
mine that I did not dream it could be any one else.’" 

She smiles sweetly and returns the baby she has m her 
arms to the waiting nurse, who receives it and leaves us 
alone. 

“It is no matter,"" she says in perfect English, which 
surprises me on account of her thoroughly Spanish ap- 
“ I hope I have not startled you,"" I say, loath to leave 
her charming presence. _ , 

“Only for a moment,"" she says, smiling again. Ihen 
she suppresses an outright laugh as she adds: 

“You w'ere very dramatic, you know."" 

“ I have no doubt,"" I answer, laughing in turn, though 
I feel a trifle faint from my recent excitement and disap- 
pointment. “ It is an unfortunate way that I have. I 
never saw such a resemblance as you bear my little friend, 
both in voice and person.’" 

“ It is singular,’" she says rather musingly. I never 
heard any one say that before."" f » j 

“I wish you could see the child I speak of, I say 

eagerly. 

“ Child?” she says in laughing surprise. 

My face flushes hotly as I remember my own words. 

“ Yes, she is a child,” I say, of not more than sixteen 

What^did you say her name is?” she says m her sweet, 
simple manner. “ That is/" she adds as an after-thought, 
“ if I am not impertinent in my inquiries. 

“No, decidedly not,” I answer earnestly. Her name 

is Veronique.” ^ , 

Her face grows pale and then flushes crimson. 

“Veronique!” she says unsteadily and in evidently 
suppressed excitement. ‘^And you say she looks like 

Your own reflection could not be more alike,” 1 
answer; “except that she is not quite so tall nor so well 
matured.” 


48 


ONI. 


Strange/^ she says, rather more to herself than to 
me. "'Poor little Vera! Her name was Veronique too 
and she looked like me.^^ ^ 

I am almost afraid to draw my breath, the stillness is 
so great for a moment after she ceases speaking. 

I hoped she would go on and tell me more, but she 
stops, her hands clasped loosely before her, her lovely eyes 
saddened and gazing into mine, though she does not seem 
to be conscious of my presence. 

Then a sudden clang of music reaches us from the ball- 
room, and she starts into life again. 

^ me, she says with a quick, quivering sigh, 

but your words and that name aroused in me the one 
great, blinding grief of my life. My sister^s name was 
Veronique and it is also my mother's name." 

" And your sister is dead.’" I ask, scarcely daring to 
confess to myself what I believe, what I hope. ^ 

Oh, if only I knew!" she says, with a world of pas- 
sionate longing m her voice. ^ 

I pray that you will calm yourself," I say gentlv " nr 
volf ^ but miserable memories "sbe mv 

:But I am interested,” I assert firmlv 

<l«w“y"oS “o“|Ko"’i S','*,'*' •'M mil 

again in surprise “ ^ my breath 


" StoSv.’S:';; r 

tion. years ago?" 


ques* 


ONI 


40 


She nods assent, seeming scarcely able to speak. 

^^Your mother was a dark, beautiful woman, with a 
voice like your own?^^ 

Yes,^^ she whispers. 

^^Did she, in speaking to her child, often make use of 
the expression I heard you say as I came into the room, 
^ Ml linda mucTiachita T 

‘^1 have heard her say it to my baby sister hundreds 
of times, she says, in almost breathless excitement. 

And you lost her there! she was stolen or something 
of the kind?” 

Not there, but here in this country. She disap- 
peared. But go on, go on!” 

^‘1 have seen and know her,” I exclaim, my excitement 
scarcely endurable.* 

It cannot be true!” cries the beautiful woman beside 
me wildly. Oh, thanks be to God! Thanks be to 
God!” 

She seizes my hand and carries it rapturously to her 
lips; then scarcely able to retain her eagerness, she rises 
to her feet, and holding out both her hands to me, she 
cries: 

^^Come, come, take me to her, quick, quick!” 

For the first time the enormity of what I have done 
strikes me. 

What am I to tell this girl of her sister? The truth? 
Merciful God ! how she would curse me for my part in 
the wretched affair. 

I sit staring stupidly at her, uttering never a word. 

She drops on her knees at my side and seizes both my 
hands. 

Why do you not speak?” she says passionately, with 
wildly dilated eyes. Let me tell you what it means to 
me. Listen: I cannot tell you the whole story, for I do 
not know it myself, being only about eleven years of age 
when the affair took place. My mothe]’ was and is my 
idol. The one love of my life, the one wild, passionate 
worship was given to her. My little sister, then only 
three years of age, was stolon, for what reason I cannot 
tell you, but in his mad endeavor to regain possession of 
her, "my father lost his life. Grieved beyond endurance 
at her double loss, my mother, my darling mother, was 
found a raving maniac. She has remained so since, and 


50 


ONI 


the physicians say that the only hope of ever restoring* 
her to reason^ is to give her back her child, which was 
the principle cause of her insanity. Can you wonder at 
my eagerness to have her back? Can you hesitate, if you 
know she lives, to restore her to her poor, mad mother, 
and broken-hearted sister? Oh, sir, for the love of 
Heaven, speak to me and let me know the truth 

I release one of my hands, and pass it in a dazed sort 
of way across my eyes, and try in vain to think what I 
had best say and how to say it. My brain seems murky 
and inactive, and I sit tongue-tied and can find no 
words. 

Oh, if I had only held my tongue until I had found 
her, and knew that she was safe! 

would to God I could tell you where she is!” I say 
at last, in a slow, hoarse monotone. I would give my 
life — my soul, to know myself.” 

I shall never forget the expression of hopeless pain 
that comes across that beautiful face, as Oni's sister real- 
izes that it is only a shadow and not a substance she has 
found. 

She sinks into a little heap upon the floor, and' rocks 
herself backward and forward, weeping bitterly. 

“ Oh, my poor darling!’’ she sobs, if I could only have 
taken her to you! If I could only have seen your poor, 
dear arms around her once more, how gladly I would have 
died to have brought you that happiness!” 

I lean forward, and placing my arms around her, I 
place her upon the sofa beside me. 

^ Very tenderly I remove her hands from her face, and 
try to soothe her. 

You must calm yourself,” I say, gently. Giving 
way to your anguish will never help you to find your sis- 
wui n progress. I swear to you that I 

be she dead or alive, and restore her to her 
^ Qmther and to you.” 

ffrpltlwifr ?*’■>”. says, looking at me with her 
great dajk eyes swimming m tears, “that you should be 
SO interested in our miserable storv?” ^ 

''A man- whom 


servipp pnH i invaluable 

Wilton.” ^ heart— Jack - 

“ Not Howard Wilton’s brother?” she asks. 


ONL 


51 


The same/^ I answer, coloring warmly. Do you 
know him?^^ 

A little,” she answers. He is engaged to my friend, 
Grace Melrose. Oh, sir,” she continues, returning to the 
subject uppermost in her heart and mine, is there any 
hope of finding her? Have you any clew?” 

If there is a God in heaven,” I answer, fervently, I 
will find her; and if any man upon earth has wronged her 
in her innocence and purity, he shall answer to me with 
his puny, cowardly life!” 

She looks at me, astonished at my vehemence, but be- 
fore she can speak, the portieres are thrown open, and 
Miss Melrose, upon the arm of a gentleman, stands be- 
fore us. 

Oh, Jack,” she says, I have looked for you every- 
where. Howard has been here, and I wanted to see your 
little surprise so, but I couldnT find you. Then he was 
summoned away on business. I told him you were here, 
but he said he had heard; but as you could not be foiuid 
at once he could not wait, as the message was of vital im- 
portance.” 

My face must be ghastly in my terrible disappointment, 
for the gentleman with Miss Melrose leaves her and 
hastily gets me a glass of wine. 

I gulp it down, murmuring something about the close- 
ness of the room, and try to smile. 

It is too bad I should have missed him,” I say, as 
steadily as I can. ""Where is he stopping?” 

"" He left the city half an hour ago.” 

"" My detectives will surely know where he has gone,” I 
say mentally, ""and I will follow on the next train. It 
is better as it is. Oh God, give me strength to succeed!” 

If I could only ha%? looked a few days into the future! 

But the all-wise Kuler of the Universe knows best and 
gives us hope to deaden bitterest disappointment and 
prevent our flagging spirits from sinking under its 
weight of woe. 


CHAPTER XL 

Of course I understand that the messenger who sum- 
moned Howard away upon business of such importance 


52 


ONI. 


was all a myth, but that does not alter my unfortunate 
situation. 

I have done nothing but bungle from the beginning, 
and I can plainly enough see where I have been in error 
now. 

Miss Melrose, Mr. Talbot and Miss Dolores Vegas— as 
I hear Oni’s sister called — enter into an animated conver- 
sation which I dimly hear as though in a dream. 

‘^Our waltz is beginning. Miss Melrose, I hear Talbot 
say, ‘^and we decidedly must not lose it. Will you 
come?’^ 

Yes,^^ answers Miss Melrose, and turning laughingly 
to Miss Vegas, she adds, ‘^you donT know our little 
world here much, my dear Dolores, so let me give you a 
little friendly warning. Jack is the best fellow alive, 
but he is dangerous to women. They invariably fall in 
love with him, but I mean to placard him ^ Engaged.' " 

They both laugh merrily, and Miss Melrose and Mr. 
Talbot retire. 

We have scarcely heard the closing of the library door, 
when the light, happy manner Miss Vegas has assumed, 
changes utterly. 

The smile fades from her lips and in its stead comes a 
look of intense fear. She grasps my arm and says in 
almost trembling haste: 

I thought they would never go. Now tell me quickly 
what all this means. What has Howard Wilton, your 
brother, to do with my sister Veronique?" 

I look at her in absolute amazement. 

What has been said by which she could arrive at any 
such conclusion as this? 


Of what are you thinking?" I stammer. 

^ Pah!" she says in some disgust, but much excitement. 
Do you think I cannot see and understand so palpable 
a thing as that? Do you consider me only one more of 
these brainless, namby-pamby idiots of society who see 
only what you would have me see, and understand only 
what you would have me understand? My long life of 
care and trouble has taught me to be different from that. 
Why do you not know where my sister is? Why did 
you think of the possibility of some man having wronged 

widaSofyour 


ONI. 


sa 

She ceases speaking, but her hands are clasped tightly 
and her breath comes in quick, short gasps. 

I am utterly astonished and I can find no words in 
which to answer her. 

Speak to me, I beseech you,” she says almost in a 
whisper. 

There is no reason,” I force myself to say, but the 
words come slowly and do not sound real, why you 
should accuse my brother of any such thing as that.” 

She looks at^me for a moment in silence, then says, as 
though she were making a painful effort: 

Forgive me! I forgot I was a total stranger, in whom 
you can take no interest. I forgot it was of your own 
brother I was speaking. I only remembered my own 
selfish sorrow. But you have not deceived me.” 

I hold out my hands and she places hers in them with 
a pretty, confiding little gesture, which brings Oni to my 
mind with great force. 

I shall not try to deceive you,” I say, huskily, ^^biit 
I know nothing, absolutely nothing! Do not expect me 
to tell you my suspicions. This much alone I can com- 
municate to you: I am looking for your sister, and I 
shall fi7id her !” When I do, she shall be restored to 
you.” 

She raises my hand to her lips and kisses it passion- 
ately. 

Oh, sir!” she says, with tears in her beautiful eyes, 

how can I ever thank you for your interest in her. If 
the devotion of a life ” 

I stop her by a gesture. 

Wait until I have found her,” I say, hoarsely. You 
may have more reason to curse than to bless me, but I 
pray God it may not be so. I am going now. Give me 
your address, please, and say nothing of this matter to 
any one. You must trust me thoroughly, trust me 
blindly, or not at all!” 

I do trust you,” she says, looking me steadfastly in 
the eyes, with more than my life, with the hope of my 
dear mothers restoration to reason, I have a large fort- 
une, and to its last farthing it is yours to help you in 
your search.” 

She gives mo her address, and I carefully jot it down 
in my note-book. 


54 


ONI. 


May I trouble you to make my excuses to Miss Mel- 
rose. I should prefer not seeing any of them again." 

Certainly; I will do it." 

She takes up my crutch from the chair where I have 
laid it and hands it to me. She is very sweet and wom- 
anly in her manner, and I like and admire her intensely. 
It is only a small thing which she has done, but her 
thoughtful kindness, shown in the way she does it, 
touches me. 

Thank you," I say, but my tone lacks the calmness 
I should have desired in uttering the simple words. 

I rise and start away, but as I reach the door, I re- 
member that I have not said good-evening to her. As I 
turn and extend my hand, she, instead of taking it, 
places both of hers upon my shoulders. She is not over 
tall, and it requires a slight effort to do it. The action 
does not surprise me, as everything she does seems to 
come naturally and spontaneously. 

Will you answer a question which it may be none of 
my business to ask?" she says, earnestly. 

"‘Yes," I answer. 

“ Do you love my sister, that you take such an interest 
in her?" 


“With my whole heart," I answer fervently. 

She drops her eyes for a moment, and when she speaks 
again there is a slight tremor in her voice. 

“ And this other young lady to whom Miss Melrose 
says you are engaged?" 

“The engagement that did exist is broken. My love 
for your sister is an honorable one; and I pray God to make 
me worthy of her if I am ever successful in winning her 
for my wife, as I hope to do." 

“Does she return this love then?" 

“ I do not know. I fear not." 

“ Do not fear! She will— she must!" 

I look at this strange girl in some astonishment; 
then, without replying, I raise her hand and kiss it ten- 
derly. 

xirui l^oll me all the story, 

^ ^-gain to leave the 


“ I will," I answer, 
will come to me?" 


and if I need you and send, you 


om. 


55 


the world’s end/’ she answers, and I take my 

leave. 

There are so many different thoughts in my head as I 
bowl along in my coupe over the rather rough pavements 
that I can hardly tell which is uppermost. 

On my arrival at my rooms, I find, them occupied by a 
man whom I have never seen before. 

In answer to my look of inquiry, he says: 

You are Mr. John H. Wilton?” 

I nod assent, without speaking. 

He takes rather a soiled card from his pocket and 
hands it to me. It bears the simple inscription: 

Dayid Birdsall, 

Private Detective, 

Oh!” I say. ^^Be seated, sir.” 

You made a mistake in not leaving word behind you, 
where you were going to-night, sir,” says my guest, 
plunging into business at once. 

How?” I ask in some alarm. 

I have seen your brother and the young lady, and 
there was plenty of time to summon you, but you could 
not be found.” 

""The devil!” I say, with more feeling than elegance. 

The detective is evidently delighted to punish me for 
my want of forethought, for he looks at me with a smile 
through his half-closed eyes which exasperates me. 

"" Tell me what occurred,” I say a trifie angrily, "'and 
don’t wait for me to question you.” 

"" There is no need for such hot haste, sir,” he says with 
a yawn. "" You cannot follow them before eight o’clock 
to-morrow.” 

"" Go on,” I say, seeing that to question him only re- 
tards progress. • , . t 

"" Well,” he begins, "" it was fully ten o’clock before I 
found out where he was stopping, then I liad some diffi- 
culty in getting a room for myself at that hour of the 
night in the same house. Altogether I am not so desira- 
ble a boarder, to all appearances, as Mr. Howard Wilton. 

""Then, to save my life, I could not get sight of that 
girl who was passing off as his sister. He was known in 
the house as Mr. Williams.” 

He pauses and looks at me, but as I make no remaiK, 


he goes on. 1 don^t think I could have spoken if my life 
had depended upon it. 

About twelve o’clock I saw him go out, but before 
leaving, he went to the room next to mine (I had the 
hall-room), and knocking upon the door, he called gently. 
Some one opened the door from the inside a little way 
and he said: ' I am going out for a little while, only an 
hour or so. Don’t be frightened, and if you want any- 
thing, ring your bell. Be very careful and have no con- 
versation with any one.’ All this was said in a very low 
tone, but I was closer to him than I am to you. 

"" " I will be careful,’ she answered, so coldly that her 
voice almost froze me. Then he left.’ There was a mes- 
senger call in the hall by my room door, and I sent at 
once for you, but you could not be found. Before the 
boy returned, I had examined the door which led from 
my room into hers. There had been a spring lock upon 
it at one time, which had been removed. Of course you 
know that in taking them off, it leaves a pretty large 
hole. That hole had been filled up with putty and 
painted over. I took my knife and without the slight- 
est sound I removed the filling, which left me a space 
large enough to see everything in that room. Then I 
turned out my gas and waited. 

‘"The messenger-boy was the first interruption, report- 
ing that you could not be found; I was disappointed, 
but did not consider that the matter was of any vital im- 
portance. 

of fhe house, 

when Ml. Wilton returned. He had been gone scarcely 
three-quarters of an hour, and the moment I heard his 

2 appene^':'"^'“® ^ something had 

renlated'^^r^f *' 8 htly on the young lady’s door, and 
4.1 ^ 1 1 ^ second time before she would answer 

lough she was wide awake, as I could sec perfectlv her 

- SLvSs* “f, “•> t. thS d.», 

“‘Who is there?’ ' 

< V,,'* answered. ‘ Let me in ’ 

‘“Put'oTv"®^?'"®'"- I am undressed.’ 

Put on your dress, and open the door,’ he said, with 


ONL 


57 


pleading and sternness combined in his tone. ^ I have 
something of importance to say to yon.’ 

^^She hesitated a moment, then, throwing on a wrap- 
per, and putting her stockingless feet into a pair of slip- 
pers, she unlocked the door. 

He entered, and closed the door carefully behind 
him. 

^ We have got to leave here to-night,’ he said, softly. 

' Get your trunks ready as quickly as you can.’ 

^ What is that for?’ she asked, calmly, standing in the 
middle of the floor, and making no pretense of doing as 
he had bidden her. 

‘ I have no time to answer questions now,’ he said, 
and though his eyes flashed, his tones were kind. " Come, 
show me what to do, and I will help you to pack.’ 

I shall do nothing of the kind,’ she said, firmly, 

^ until I know where I am going, and what I am going 
there for.’ 

‘^^You are going to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and you 
are going because I wish it,’ he answered, with a slight 
laugh. ‘'Now, are you satisfied?’ 

‘^^No, I am not!’ she said, with a sneer. ^ Your 
wishing it, is the exact reason why I shall refuse to 
stir!’ 

dear child, don’t grow dramatic,’ said your 
brother, making a great effort to control his temper. ‘ It 
is for your own sake, and only for your sake, that I wish 
you to go.’ 

' What do you mean?’ she asked. 

Tliere was a great change in her manner, which I 
could not understand, and Wilton observed it also. 

mean,’ he answered, ^that the detectives are on 
your track.’ 

" What!’ she gasped. 

I shall never forget the absolute terror upon that 
child’s face. She trembled so that she could scarcely 
stand. Your brother placed his arm around her, and drew 
her down upon a sofa upon which he was sitting. I could 
not fail to notice how she shrunk from him, even in her 
fright. 

“ ‘Don’t be frightened, little one,’ he said to her ten- 
derly. ‘ I would not have told you if I could have helped 
it; but you forced nie to do it in order to save you/ 


58 


om. 


" Why do yon take this trouble for me?" she asked, but 
her tone had changed to one of gratitude. 

“ 'For mv brother's sake, and because I love you, my 
darling,' he^answered, endeavoring to draw her to him. 

" She covered her face with her hands and began to 
sob. 

" 'Why did he tell them that I had not told the truth?' 
she sobbed. ' He might have known they would put me 
in prison.' 

'"Jack is too honorable a man to allow a woman to 
disgrace herself for his sake,' said your brother, with a 
sinister smile upon his face. 'He could not accept his 
deliverance at such a cost as that. He knew he could 
count upon me, and when he said; ' Take her out of the 
country, Howard, I ask in the name of our brotherhood, 
and keep her safely out of the law's hands,' he knew I 
would accept it as a sacred trust."' 

The detective, David Birdsall, ceases speaking to catch 
his breath, and I am confounded at his words. I can 
scarcely believe in their truth. 

" What!" I exclain, when I can find my voice again. 
" Do you mean to say that he is making that poor child 
believe that she has been indicted for perjury, and that 
it is by my wish that he has taken her away?" 

"Exactly!" sap the detective, drawing a soiled hand 
kerchief across his brow. 

" Great God!" I say, with such force that I startle even 
myself. " And what does she think I am doing all this 
time?" 

''Wait," says the detective, drawing himself up to begin 
again. "The little girl cried out loud for a moment 
after he had ceased speaking, and then she said: 

" 'Oh, Mr. Howard, what will become of him? Will 
they hang him, do you think?' 

" ' 1 think not,' he answered calmly. ' My father has 
great influence, and I think we can save him, but it was 
cruelly foolish for him to confess having committed the 
murder.' 

" Then she sobbed more violently than ever. 

" ' How could he do it?' she cried at last. ' He was'so 
gentle, and kind and true, and the night I saw him in 
prison, I almost doubted his having done it at all. Oh, 
Jack! Jack!' ^ 


om. 

She got np, and walking across tlie room, threw lier- 
self lace downward upon the bed, and cried as though 
her heart would break. 

He looked at her for a moment as though he would kill 
her, then going across the room, ho laid his hand upon 
her head and said softly: ^ . 

‘ Poor Oni; poor little girl. Remember, Oni, that un- 
der any circumstances he does not love you. He is en- 
gaged to another woman who is good, and rich, and 
beautiful.^ 

^ I don’t want his love,’ she said, passionately; "but. 
he was my friend; he said so._ He is in trouble, and I 

can do nothing for him, nothiifg!’ 

"" " Yes, you can,’ your brother said soothingly. xou 
can get your things ready and come away with me to- 
night, as he would wish you to do. 

"" There was no more persuasion necessary, fehe got up 
at once and dried her eyes and began putting a 
tides in a trunk while he sat and watched her. AY hen 
she had finished she went up and laid her hand upon his 
shoulder. 

^ Mr. Howard,’ she said, softly, a want you to for- 
give me for my ill-temper. Sometimes, I don t know 
why it is, but I do not seem to trust you. I know how 
wrong it is and how good you are, and I want you to foi- 
give me, will you?’ ^ Y 

^ AYith all my heart, little one. Oh, Oni, little dar- 
ling, why do you not take pity upon my great love and 

come to me?’ , . , , , , 

She tried to draw back from him, but his arms were 

around her w’aist and he held her tight. ^ 

appreciate your love, Howard, indeed I do,’ she 
said. * I hope you believe that, but do not ask me to 
return it now, for I cannot, indeed I cannot.’ 

" But you will some day?’ he said, eagerly. 

^ Some day!’ she repeated, with a little gasp. 

^ AVill you kiss me, Oni, to prove that you trust me. 

There was one gesture of lepulsion, then seeming to 
repent of her harshness, she leaned over and laid her lips 
upon his. He held her closely for a moment, then pick- 
ing up his hat, he started toward the door 

- "Dress quickly, darling,’ he said. ^AYe have not a 


eo ONI 

moment to lose now. I will see the landlady and return 
for you.'’ ’’ 

The detective was silent for a moment again, and my 
rage was so great that it seems as if I can never breathe 
again. 

He quietly hands me a glass of water, and says, in an 
apologetic sort of tone: 

Anger will do no good, sir. It is a pretty hard thing 
to stand, I know, but if you Avant to be at all successful 
in this case you must control your temper.” 

I know that he has spoken the truth and I make a 
powerful effort to pull myself together. 

I don’t think I am responsible for the words which fall 
from my lips and I am very sure I shall not repeat them, 
but certain it is that when I have rid myself of a volley 
of oaths, my brain feels better and clearer. 

"'There, that is right!” said Mr. Birdsall, Avhen I had 
finished and cooled off a bit. "You will feel better, 
now.” 

"Are you sure they went to Milwaukee?” 

"Sure, sir,” he answers. "I followed them to the 
depot, saw him buy his ticket and then saw them enter 
the car.” 

He rises and takes up his hat. 

‘"I think that is all, sir. If you should need me, and 
Avill telegraph, I will come upon the first train.” 

I thank him and take his address. 

If I only could have foreseen, and taken him with me, 
Avhat trouble and despair I might have saved us all! 


CHAPTER XII. 

Every hour seemed a century as the train crawled 
along on its weary way from Hew York to Milwaukee. 

On account of my misfortune the kind passengers con- 
sidered it their duty to be attentive to me, and though 
1 appreciated their generous intentions, it annoyed and 
harassed me to an almost unbearable degree. 

We arrived at our destination about twelve o’clock at 
V knowing tliat it was too late to attempt to find 
any trace of Howard and Oni until morning, I takeacar- 

nw^kin°d?v thankful to be delivered from 

my kindly officious fellow-travelers. 


ONI. 


61 


Arriving at the hotel, I could not resist the temptation 
of looking over the register, but I see nothing which re- 
sembles Howard’s writing, and I refrain from beginning 
my investigation until morning. 

I am assigned a room rather high up, as the house is 
full- but the situation is all the same to me, or if I had 
had no room at all. 

I sit for some time completing my plans for action on 
the day following, vain dreams which are never to be 
realized, before I can summon courage to retire and gain 
the rest, of which I am so much in need. 

I conjure up the scene in my mind of how I shall stand 
before Howard the next day, and face him in his diabol- 
ical attempt to ruin my pure little love, for that he has 
no intention of marrying her I am perfectly sure. I will 
bring his sin home to time, but if she is uninjured, if her 
innocence and chastity is unassailed, and I can return 
her in her virgin purity to her mother and beautiful 
sister, then I will give him his miserable, cowardly, 
murderous life, and defy him to harm me in future. But 

if he has gained his point and God of heaven! the 

bare thought stifles me. 

To-morrow, to-morrow I will see her and know all! 

Ah, vain dreamer, vainer dreams! 

Why did no kind voice from heaven come down and 
tell me how that sweet, balmy, star-lit night was to end? 
Why did no angel’s voice cry out to me and warn me of 
God’s vengeance upon the accursed Sodom and Gomorrah? 

I raise my window and sit upon its ledge for a few 
moments, my cheek fanned by the cool night-breeze 
which brings comfort and quiet to my disturbed nerves; 
then throwing myself, still dressed, upon the bed from 
sheer exhaustion, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

How long I lie there in my blissful unconsciousness I 
never know, but I am awakened by a smothering, chok- 
ing sensation and a clanging of electric bells dinning in 
my ears. 

For a moment I am almost stupefied. 

I try to collect my senses and understand where I am 
and what has happened. 

I have an indistinct remembrance of leaving my gas 
burning brightly, and now it is growing dim and my fancy 
must be distorted into believing it is almost out. 


05 


ONI. 

I am still in this uncertain, half-dazed state when a 
voice, laden with such fright that it bears terror upon its 
very bosom, shrieks out in the stillness of the night that 
awful cry of : 

Fire! Fire! Fire! 

Almost instantaneously a hundred hoarse voices repeat 
the dreadful cry, and it seems to rise higher and higher 
until the very heavens are rent with its cadence of hor- 
ror. 

I put out my hand to find my crutches and endeavor to 
puff some of tlie smoke from my lungs. Then I feel my 
way to the door. 

A volley of smoke and flame greet me, and to my con- 
sternation I find that all egress by the stairway is cut off. 

As I stand for one moment with open door, by the 
lurid glare of the flames I see the faces of women and 
children, stricken with ghastly terror and eyes bulging 
from their sockets looking upon the terrible death which 
awaits them. 

There is a confused shriek of moans, calls for help, 
prayers and curses. 

To attempt to assist them is worse than madness. 

As I gaze a frightful gust of smoke comes up the 
staircase and in its intense and horrible darkness shuts out 
the sight of those agonized, dying faces. 

As quickly as I can in my unfortunate condition I 
spring back into my room and make for a side window. 

When I reach it I am almost overcome by the dense 
clouds of smoke which have already filled my room, but I 
throw up the sash and lean far out to survey my position 
and see what chance I have for life. 

There are not many minutes to lose! 

There is only one hope. 

If my leg were well I would risk it without fear, but 
now 

It is my last forlorn hope. 

I am very high up, and my only chance is to drop by 
the shutters and the leader on the house to the next 
roof. 

The leader will afford something for my hands to cling 
to, and if I can only get along with my one foot I may 
succeed. 

I throw my crutches from the window upon the roof. 


ONI. 


63 


Already a crowd numbering thousands has gathered in 
the street below and are gazing upon that scene of wild 
horror, which can only resemble the maddening, agoniz- 
ing tortures of hell. 

As I begin my perilous descent, a voice from the street 
calls oi^t: 

See the man at the corner!” 

Another calls out with an earnestness which sends a 
shiver through me: 

God help him!” 

I close my eyes for one moment to steady the terrible 
swimming in my head and utter a silent prayer, then 
carefully and slowly I proceed. 

The stillness in the street would be intense but for an 
occasional hoarse command given by the fireman and the 
splash of water upon the burning building. 

Feeling my way step by step, I descend the dizzy 
lieight, until at last, saving my leg as much as possible, 

1 make the last drop and fall upon the roof below. 

I shall never forget the music of that low, fierce, growl- 
ing cheer, cheer upon cheer, which that expectant crowd 
sent up as they saw me safe. 

I raise my voice in thanksgiving to God that I am 
saved from that awful death, then 1 think of those un- 
happy women and those innocent children who have been 
doomed to burning alive. 

I raise my eyes and look upon the terrible work which 
willcause such weeping and wailing in many homes, and 
as I do so, the place is illumined with the bright red glare 

of the fire. _ i , j. i , 

The sight is grand, awe-inspiring, frightful! 

I look higher to realize the miracle by which I have 
been saved, and the sight which greets me turns my 
blood to fire and makes of me a raving lunatic for the 

time. ^ 1 ’ 1 T 1 

In the window next to the one from which I have so 

recently escaped, a man stands, and lying across his 
bosom is the fainting, senseless form of a woman, still in 
her night-clothes. 

I pass my hand across my eyes, thinking it must be 
some optical illusion conjured up by my recent terror, 
but when I look again I see there can be no mistake. 

It is my brother Howard and Veronique Gray! 


64 


ONI. 


There comes that frightful, bewildering, death-dealing 
cry, for which I have been listening: 

The tvalls are falling !” 

God of Heaven! 


CHAPTEK Xm. 


Wheit the full meaning of those horrible words strikes 
me, I stand for one moment stunned, paralyzed with the 
awful thought of the numbing, ceaseless misery the fall- 
ing of those walls will bring to me, and the frightful 
death it will bring to my loved one! 

And I am powerless to help her! 

I think that is the hardest part of all to bear! 

Utterly maddened by this fatal helplessness, 1 rush for- 
ward to rescue her, or die in the attempt, when that low 
rumble, rising above the crackling of the flames and the 
hoarse calling of voices in the street, reaches me. It is 
of only a second^s duration, and is followed by a horrible 
crash, the noise of which will ring in my ears to the day 
of my death, and with the falling of the walls I fall and 
lose consciousness. 

It seems to me to be years, but in reality it is only 
weeks, when I open my eyes to the light of reason. 

I seem to have been in a deep, troubled sleep, from 
which I have not fully awakened. 

The room, a strange one to me, would be in darkness 
but for the bright fire which glows in the grate; and 
somehow, though I cannot explain it quite to myself, it 
brings me a feeling of loneliness and desolation and 
misery. 


I have no idea where I am, nor why I am here, and I 
feel so wretchedly weak and helpless that I have scarcely 
any desire' to find out. 

I turn in my bed wearily, and gaze with a fascinated 
horror into the glowing fire, when a figure comes from 
somewhere out of the gloaming, and gliding over to the 
nre, draws a screen between it and mo. 

I forget the relief I feel in having it shut out from mv 
sight in wondering where I have before seen that strangelV 
familiar figure, and why a woman should be in my room^ 

When she has adjusted the screen to her satisfaction, 


■'V 


ONI. 


65 


she stands looking into the fire, her hands clasped loosely 
in front of her, her head bent forward in dejected sadness. 

Have I been ill? and is this my nurse? 

No! The classical elegance of that form, the perfect 
jioise of that delicate head, does not belong to one in the 
lower walks of life. 

My brain seems thick and full of cobwebs, and I can- 
not recall anything clearly. What can be the matter 
with me? Surely this is not a dream. 

I utter a deep sigh, born of weariness and disgust at 
the rustiness of my mental faculties, when the figure at 
^ the fireplace turns quickly, and hastily crossing to my 
bed, kneels down by my side. 

It is too dark now for me to see more than an outline, 
owing to the arrangement of the screen. 

She takes one of my hands gently in her own, and with 
the other she brushes back the hair from my forehead. 

Still I wait for her to speak, but she does not. 

At last, when I can bear the silence no longer, I say, 
and my voice has an unusual, querulous ring, which is 
unfamiliar to me: 

Who are you? Where am I? and what is the matter 
with me?"^ 

I have only intended to ask one question, but now that 
I have started I doii^t seem to stop very readily. 

‘‘At last!’^ she says, almost in a whisper. 

I feel her clutch my hand almost convulsively, and she 
adds, with an endeavor to suppress the sob which rises in 
her throat: 

“Oh, Jack, I am so glad!” 

As I hear the sound of that voice, for a moment 
heaven seems to have opened, and all the angels, in 
their purity and beauty, to have come down to rejoice 
with me. , 

“Oni!” I say so faintly that I can scarcely catch the 
whisper myself. 

“No, not Oni; but her ^sister again,” the §ame voice 
says with an infiection of tenderness. 

Then it all comes back to me. 

All the mortal terror, all the great blinding grief, all 
the helpless sorrow, and despair, and death. 

I start up wildly in my bed and cry out in my passion-^ 
ate agony. 


60 


ONI. 


She tries to soothe me, this sweet, gentle girl. She 
seats herself upon my bed and pys those things which 
come so natural to a tender,, pitying wonian, she puts 
her arms around my neck, and lays her sweet face, all wet 

with tears, against my own. . -r i i t 

‘‘You will make yourself ill again. Jack, she says at 
last. For my sake, calm yourself."" 

“ Go away,"" I say in my stubborn ingratitude. W hen 
you know the part I have played in your sister’s death 
you will hate me."" 

“ I do know all, everything,"" she says softly. 

“ How can you?"" I ask sneeringly. Only God and I 
know that."" ^ 

“ You forget how ill you have been,"" she says pity-' 
ingly. “You forget that only I have attended you. 
You forget that in delirium men only speak the truth."" 

“ Light the gas,"’ I say, with what sounds very like ir- 
relevance. 

AYithout a word she obeys me, then returns to her seat 
beside me. 

' “Your voice could not carry conviction,"" I say with 
a heavy, dead feeling upon me. “ I want to look at you. 
Now tell me. After knowing all you must know, after 
having stumbled and blundered as I have done, after 
having been the indefinite cause of your sister’s death, 
and the brother of the man who tried to ruin her, can 
you tell me, with God as your judge, that you do not de- 
spise and curse me?” 

She actually smiles. 

“When you are well, you will know how wildly you 
have spoken,” she says softly. “It was an unfortunate 
chain of circumstances, which no one could prevent. I 
do not see where you are to blame. From my soul, I 
thank God that she saved you' from the unjust punish- 
ment with which you were threatened.” * 

When she ceases speaking, I gaze at her for a full min- 
ute, trying to decide in my mind whether she is'angel or 
woman, then the remembrance of the one great blighted 
hope of her life comes back to me. 

“ Your mother!"" is all I can manage to articulate. 

She bows her head, and over her face comes that ex- 
pression of hopeless pain which cuts my very soul. 

She is just the same,"" she says, trying to conceal th^ 


0 ^% 07 

despair wliicli her triitliful eyes reveal. But you must 
not speak any more now, or Dr. Armstead will take away 
rny reputation for being an excellent nurse. 

^^No, I will not talk,’’ I say, detaining her by a little 
gesture, as she is about to leave me, but you must tell 
nie how you found me, and how you came to be estab- 
lished here as my nurse.” 

It is simple enough,” she says, endeavoring to assume 
a light-hearted, careless manner. 

There were numerous engagements written in your 
note-book, but mine was the only address that could be 
found. Your name was on the outside, consequently I 
was telegraphed to, and in accordance with my promise to 
you, I am here. You are in a private room of the- hos- 
pital, and J persuaded the dear, good doctor to allow me 
to' remain with you. Now are you satisfied? Oh! there 
was one thing more. I found a man’s address on a slip of 
paper after I came, and I sent for him. He came and 
looked into everything, but left yesterday. I made him 
promise to speak to no one of your illness, as I did not 
know what your wishes might be upon the subjeet. He 
was David Birdsall, a private detective.” 

How freshly that name brings everything before my 
mind again. 

If I had only brought David Birdsall to this place with 
me, my Oni, my darling, might now be alive and in her 
place beside her beautiful, wealthy sister. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

I AM a long time convalescing, and Dolores Vegas, or 
Lola, as she insists upon my calling her, is very good to 
me, and we become very great friends. 

She is my nurse, amanuensis and ‘‘general factotum,” 
as she laughingly dubs herself. 

She scolds me for my imprudence, laughs at me for my 
self-censure, Aveeps with me in our mutual sorrow, writes 
my letters for me to my parents, telling them of my mis- 
fortune and Howard^s death, assures them on her own ac- 
cord that I am entirely out of danger, writes to Pierre- 
pont, and in short is everything to me and more than a 
dear, dear sister could be. 

Before I met Oni Gray, in my susceptibility I should 


ONI. 


have been madly in love with this exquisite woman, ior 
a time, but that one pure, earnest, real passion has shown 
me the depth and fervor of true love, and has also shown 
me the difference between the reality and the imita- 

When we return to New York, I am fully restored to 
health, though still showing the effects of my recent ill- 


ness. 

There another terrible blow awaits me. 

I am hardly established in my new quarters when J am 
summoned home to Wilton Grange, to the death-bed ot 

my dear old mother. , , „ i i tt a 

I have always been my mother s favorite, while Howard 

was my father’s. 

My love for my mother has always amounted almost to 
idolatry, and it seems doubly hard to me to lose her now, 
following so closely upon my other loss. 

I am in time, however, to receive a prayer from her 
dying lips for my safety and happiness, and her last bless- 
ing, which is a great comfort to me. 

You have been a good son to me, my boy,” she says, 
almost with her last breath. ‘‘ Any trouble you may 
have caused me was not of your own creating, but 
brought about through the nobility of your heart.” 

I remember those words all my life. 

My father, though he has always been kind an-d con- 
siderate to me, has never shown me that love which he 
has lavished upon Howard. My brother seemed to be 
the very light of his eyes, the pride of his life. 

After the funeral is over, and things are going on in 
the old home without the guidance of that dear hand 
which has ruled over it since my earliest remembrance, I 
determine to return to New York. 

I roam over the fields which are now covered with 
snow; I visit the glen which has such bitter-sweet mem- 
ories for me, and go even to the little cottage which has 
been my dead love’s home. 

As I look into the firelit window, I see the old woman 
who drove her from her door to death, and the feeling 
of hatred which rises in my heart almost chokes me. 

The neighborhood is too much for me. I should be a 
madman in a week. 


OKU 


G9 

My father expresses sincere regret when I make known 
to him my intention of returning to the city. 

I hoped, Jack/^ he says to me kindly, almost tenderly, 

that you would be willing to settle down on the farm 
and learn something about taking care of the old place 
before I die. Of course it will all go to you now, and we 
are all in all to each other, I hoped we might spend to- 
gether what few years remain of my life.’^ 

It is almost the first touch of affection my father has 
ever shown me, and always having been very fond of him, 
there is, of course, an answering chord in my heart. 

It is good of you to want me, sir,"' I say, grasping 
his hand, ‘^but the quiet would kill me. I should have 
too much time to think."’ 

I know, my son,"" he answers, gently, but. this 
wild grief for your mother will not last always. You 
have never liked your lawyer’s profession, and you might 
soon bring a wife home and be very happy here."" 

'^I shall never marry, sir,"" I say, with quiet firmness. 

‘‘Nonsense!"" says my father, sententiously. “You 
will get over that affair about Ellrice soon enough.” 

“ I beg of you, father,"" I say earnestly, “ not to think 
I am fretting about Miss Lestrange. I should be 
ashamed to have you think I could care so much for so 
shallow and soulless a woman as she proved herself 
to be.” 

“Ah, my boy,” says my father, gravely, “there are 
not many women who would not have thrown you over 
for just the same or slighter cause than Ellrice Lestrange 
had.” 

“ Then the woman never could have loved me,” I say, 
thinking of the woman who sacrificed so much for my 
sake, and yet may not have loved me. 

“Women do not love as men do, my son,” says my 
father, with a shadow upon his face. 

“ No, not as men do,” I say, eagerly, “but with more 
depth, more fervor, more grandeur, more holiness and 
self-sacrifice than a man could ever dream of. When a 
woman will sacrifice the opinion of the world for friend- 
ship, what would she not do for love?” 

The shadow upon my father’s handsome face deepens. 

“What has become of the girl who did that for you. 
Jack?” he asks, quietly. 


ONL 


70 

j\Iy face flushes. 

As usual, I have allowed my tongue to carry me too 
far. I do not care to tell my father that his dead son, 
his favorite, caused her death and has broken my heart, 
but he is looking at me and I must answer something. 

I let my eyes wander to the big open fire and answer, 
without returning his gaze: 

^^Deadr 

He seems to feel that I do not care to be questioned 
further, for he ceases to speak and we sit in silence, in 
the fast approaching dusk for some minutes. 

My father breaks the silence. 

He heaves a great sigh and says as if almost forgetful 
of my presence: 

How her sweet voice in the courtroom brought back 
to me those old lost days of hope and trust and love. She 
was so like and yet so unlike.^^ 

“ Like whom?^^ I ask, almost afraid to interrupt his re- 
flections, 

^^Like a woman whom I once loved,^^ he says, still 
speaking as though to himself. But she proved false 
to me.” 

He is silent again for a moment, .then' turning to me, 
he lays his hand upon my shoulder/ 

I don^t know why I should speak of this to you. The 
last time her name passed my lips was in telling the story 
to your mother. We agreed, before we were married, 
never to speak of it again, and I never have. I cannot 
tell you the story, it is too painful to me even yet, but I 
loved her, God knows how well. She was my one 
thought, my life, my soul, but she was false, false as only 
a beautiful woman can be, and I have never seen her since. 
That child^s face, her voice brought the other woman so 
clearly to my mind, that it has almost lived in my mem- 
ory ever since, try as I would to cast it from me.” 

A pang goes through me that my dear, patient mother 
was not the first and only love of the man she almost 
worshiped. 

He seems to read my thought, for he says earnestly: 

I loved your mother, as Heaven is my judge, and 
never within my remembrance has she found fault with 
me in any wa}', nor had she cause to do so. Possibly 
some day you will understand and appreciate my situ a- 


* ONI 


71 


tion. Then you will know the difference between the 
liot, scorching noondgiy's sun, and the calm beauty of a 
moonlit night; the difference between the mad whirl of 
the rapids below the falls and the smooth surface of a 
summer lake; the difference between the consuming, pas- 
sionate, unreasoning love and a calm, respectful, absorb- 
ing affection/^ 

I have loved once,^’ 1 answer slowly, can never 
love again 

So speaks the boy,” says my father gently. In the 
first tumultuous agony of my grief, I vowed to shun all 
women forever, but I met your mother and learned her 
worth. You know the rest. 

I have made no vow,” I say, solemnly, for in my 
dead lovers grave my heart lies. Possibly had it only 
been bruised, as yours was, there might be a balm; there 
would be a hope of healing; but resurrection comes only 
in that heaven whose mysteries we cannot solVe.” 

^^And you loved so much your brother’s m ” 

Don’t utter that word, sir!” I say, almost fiercely. 

It is the most damnable lie to which man ever gave 
utterance. Howard was my brother, and your favorite 
son, and he is dead. : Let that thought stand between me 
and any curse I might be tempted to call down upon him, 
but his was the fault, his the guilt, his the punishment. 
She was as innocent as my sainted mother; that I S 2 ueai' 
to you. I cannot say more.” 

So I would have thought of Vera,” says my father, 
sadly. 

My breath almost leaves my body. 

Who?” I ask, faintly. 

He evidently does not hear me. 

But I saw her,” he continues; had the evidence 
of my own eyes.” 

^MVhat name did you say, father?” I question. 

I try to force some degree of naturalness into my voice, 
but fail miserably. 

Do not ask me to tell you the story,” says my 
father, hoarsely, ^^for I cannot. Her name was Vera 
Couppia. Veronique, I believe, was the name, but to me 
always Vera.” 

And you met her ” 

Wheu I was minister to Spain. I met her in the 


^*2 01 ^ !• 

south of that country. Do not ask me more/’ he ones, 
covering his face with his liands. . Olh Veia, Vera 
why will not love die when one knows its object to be so 
worthless!” 

What shall I do— what say? 

My curiosity and interest are at flood-tide. 


CHAPTEK XV. 

I WAIT for a long time for my father to speak, but he 
seems to have neither an inclination nor an intention of 
doing so. 

At last I venture to break the silence. t 

I hope you will pardon me, sir,” I say humbly, "'if I 
probe too deep into an old wound, but as wo are the only 
two of our family left, I should like to hear the story of 
Your sorrow. It is not from any idle curiosity that I 
ask.” 

My father rises and places his hand upon my. shoulder. 

It would, it could do no good to tell you. I thought 
after all these years, years spent in quiet peacefulness, I 
could speak of it again dispassionately, but I find that 
the old grief is with me still. .You will understand some 
day, my boy, and acquit me' of any wrong toward your 
mother. I shall never speak of this matter again to any 
one, until I am sure that my old weather-beaten heart is 
under perfect control. Had Howard lived it might have 
been different. 

‘‘ You will not reconsider and remain at home with 
me?” 

I am afraid I cannot, sir,” I answer respectfully. " I 
should be a sorry companion for you in my present 
spirits and we would only be a constant reminder to each 
other.” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” says my father sadly, "but 
we must be more together than we have been. While 
Howard lived it was different. He was older and more 
companionable for me, while you were vour mother^s 
baby.” 

He smiles softly, but there is little mirth in it as he 
gazes at my tall figure, when he speaks of me as a baby. 

My desire to question him further about this episode 
of his past life is almost uncontrollable, but something in 


Oi\l. 


his face tells me it would be useless, and I do not care to 
be refused. 

“You go to-morrow?” he asks. 

“ Yes,” I answer. “ You will come to New York 
some time to see me, will you not?” 

“Yes,” he says, still smiling. “When you have a 
great case on, let me know and I will come to visit you.” 

“Thank you, sir,” I say, simply. 

“ Good-night, my boy, and God bless you.” 

There are tears in my father’s kind, handsome eyes, as 
he speaks these words for the first time in his life to me, 
and it touches me more than I care to confess, even to 
myself. 

I am so utterly alone now that I am grateful for his af- 
fection. 

It is a new experience for me, who have been accus- 
tomed to being loved and petted all my life. 

He leaves me, and I remain for a long time sitting over 
the dying embers of the fire. 

Veronique Couppia! 

Can it be possible that she and Veronique Vegas, mo- 
ther of Dolores and Oni, are identical? 

Nonsense! 

Veronique is a Spanish name, and may have belonged 
to dozens of women in the south of Spain. 

And yet, this resemblance to Oni,' of which my father 
spoke. 

I cannot but believe that there is something in it, and 
I must find out. 

But how had she played him false? 

Could the mother of two such perfect daughters be 
other than pure and true herself? 

Impossible! 

I will make my investigations quietly, and per- 
haps ” 

Oh, man, man! 

My poor, dear mother is scarcely cold in her grave, and 
here am I, her loving, devoted son, planning a reconcili- 
ation between my father and a former love. 

Thank God, my dear one, his happiness cannot inter- 
fere with your perfect bliss in that Great Star Chamber, 
and I will only be doing what you would li^ave me do, 


74 ONL 

could you look down and speak to me with those lips 
which must remain dumb forever more. 

But I am weaving a romance from a thread too fine to 
bear its own weight. 

I take leave of my father on the morrow, and return 
to my humdrum lawyer\s life. 

But it palls upon me! 

Never having been in love with my profession, I grow 
disgusted with it now, and begin to realize that though I 
may earn my living by it, though I may, after years of 
toil, amass something of a fortune, I can never hope for 
that eminence which I crave. 

Oni and my mother are forever before me, keeping 
alive in my heart the sad memories and reflections which 
are changing me from one of the lightest-hearted, jolliest 
fellows in existence, to a morose, saddened man. 

And I know this is what neither of them would wish. 

My only comfort, my one solace is my music. I live in 
it and for it. 

I am even deprived of the society of Dolores in these 
unhappy days, but she is to return to-night from her 
visit of some length to Washington, and I am to see her. 

I can hardly wait for the hour to come for me to pre- 
sent myself, so eager am I for a companion to whom I can 
talk in my misery. 

Reginald Pierrepont is a good fellow, and an honest, 
true friend, but he is a man, and it is to a woman that 
we want to go in our unhappiness — a woman who can 
understand us and pity us and sympathize with us. 

I find her, Dolores, in her own pretty boudoir, where 
she has me sent, looking fresh and sweet and piquant in 
her trailing robes of crimson and black. 

There always seems to be so much warmth in her pres- 
ence that the coldest day seems converted into summer. 

‘^What a comfort it is to have you back, Lola,^^ I say 
as she extends both her hands to me. 

It is good to hear you say so,^' she says, her pretty 
bright color coming and going vividly. If you wanted 
me, why did you not write 

You know I would not be so selfish,” I say, seating 
myself beside her on a small divan. ‘‘ Now tell me all 
about yourself.” 

I must tell you first how well you look,” she says. 


ONI. 


75 


smiling at me brightly. “You are growing positively 
fat, and your hair is redder than ever.” 

^^That is what I always hated about myself/ Isay, 
making a wry face. ‘‘ I used to think I would, be a fairly 
good-looking fellow, if it were not for my red hair.” 

She looks at me in amused astonishment. 

^^Why your hair is your saving clause,” she says laugh- 
ing. ‘'It is not really red, you know, only a delightful 
chestnut. Oh, Jack”— shaking her head wisely— “you 
would be quite plain if it were not for your peculiarly 
well-sliaped mouth, your eyes, your hair, complexion and 
figure.” 

I I’oar. , , . j 

It is the first hearty laugh I have had in many a day,, 
and it does me good. 

“Well let us leave my charms,"' I say, still laughing, 
“ and tell me of your visit.” ^ 

“ there is not much to tell,” she says, simply. I 
did not go there for pleasure but to rest, but I had a 

pleasant time.” . c,, x j.- 

“ And broke any number of hearts? I question. 

She looks at me^earnestly. 

“No,” she answers, sadly, almost pathetically, that 
is not in my line. I am of too intense a nature myself, 
to want to give pain to others. I know what it is to suf- 


fer ” 

“ But you cannot keep people from loving you,” I say, 
wondering a little at her tone. i 4. t 

“No, no more than I can make them love me, but i 
can do my best,” she answers in the same strain. 

“ Who could help loving you,” I say. “ You, so good, 

so beautiful, so true.” , , , . 14. 

She smiles a little wistfully, but does not speak at 

^^^wiien she does her voice has changed. The sadness is 
there, but there is a subtle change which I cannot ex- 
plain or account for. 1 1 <4.. ./I 

“ I saw Grace Melrose, to-day," she says, slowly, uid 
my whole heart went out to her in her sorrow, bhe 
loved your brother so truly, so devotedly. Oh, Jack, it 
must be a fearful thing to have a man one loves die I 

But how much worse to have a loved one prove 
fU'lse/" I say, thinking of my fatlier. “ I should prefov 


(A 


76 


ONI. 


death, oh, so infinitely! Suppose she knew Howard as 
we know him?’’ 

She shudders slightly, but does not answer. 

You did not tell her?” I ask, in some alarm. 

She turns her great, lustrous eyes upon me for one mo- 
ment and answers: 

‘‘Can you ask?” 

“ I want you to promise me, Lola,” I say, earnestly, 
“ never to mention one word of that story to any one, 
under any circumstances, unless I give you permission.” 

“Why do you ask that? Are you afraid to trust 
me ?” 

“ No, a thousand times no,” I answer firmly. ' “ I 
don’t know why I ask it, but I want you to promise. 
Will you?” 

“ Something tells me that I should not, something tells 
me that I will be sorry, for I never break my word, but I 
will promise because you wish it.” 

I raise her hand to my lips and kiss it lightly, as I an- 
swer: 

“Thank you!” 

She takes it from me so hastily as to surprise me, and 
covers the place I have kissed with her handkerchief. 

“I hope I have not otfended you, Lola?” I say, quite 
humbly.- 

“ No, oh no!” she says, so naturally that I think I must 
have been mistaken. 

“ Have you seen your mother since your return?” I ask, 
anxious to begin my self-imposed investigations. 

“ Indeed yes,” she answers, her eyes filling with that 
longing sadness so characteristic of her. “It almost 
breaks my heart when I think of her and know that there 
IS no hope for her now. She came up to me to-day, and 
putting her pretty arms around my neck, she said: ‘ Vera 
IS coming to-day, Lola. God told me so.’ Oh!” passion- 
ately — “ my heart cried out so against the injustice of 
the world! My poor little Vera found, only to be lost 
again, and my last hope destroyed forever.” 

She does not weep as I wish she would, and I bow my 
head in sorrow and humiliation at being indirectly the 
cause of her grjpf, oj 

She notices my dejection, and as llSlinl forgets heyself 

in her endeavor to flomfortmoi ' ^ ' 


ONI. ^ * 

Don’t think I was reproaching yon, Jack,” she says, 
laying her hand gently upon my shoulder. You know 
I did not mean that!” 

know, dear,” I say, trying to throw off my despon- 
dency for her sake. But I cannot help blaming my^lf 
sometimes. Let us try to think if there is not some other 
means.” 

Dolores shakes her head sadly. , 

‘‘ Tell me her past life,” I say, endeavoring to speak 
with careless interest, and I may be able^to find some- 
thing upon which we could build a hope. 

‘‘1 know so little of her life,” says Dolores, slowly. 

I was very young, you know when this terrible amic- 
tion befell her. She had some unhappy experience, I 
know, but I cannot tell you what it was.^ 

‘'Have you no means of finding out? I ask, my heart 
heating rapidly. 

' ' hTone.” 

" Think well,” I say, eagerly, " it might mean much to 
us.” 

“There is no way in which I could find dlit,” she says, 
after a moment’s reflection. “Stay!” with sudden in- 
spiration, “there is a paper whioji my mother alwa^rs 
carries round her neck in a chamois bag. She guards it 
more jealously than her life. Why may not that contain 

®°“®Why,indeed?” I say, in excitement. “ You must 
gain possession of that paper in some way. Can you tell me 
what her maiden name was?” 

" Veronique Couppia!” 

The words fall slowly from her lips, and I leap to my 
feet feeling sure that they, the unhappy pair, will be 

rpfionciled at last. . , 

“You must get that paper!” I say, in scarcely repressi- 
ble excitement. “ The one hope of your mother s recov- 
ery depends upon it!” 


CHAPTER XVI, 

It is not the next day, nor the next by »y means that 
Dolores succeeds in gaining possession of that little cham- 
ois baff and it is finally effected by strategy. 

Sbe%akea ft bag exactly similar to the ope she has seen 


78 


ONI. 


in her motlwr^s possession, and, wliile she sleeps, the 
nurse takes the one from her neck and replaces the imi- 
tation one, filled with blank papers. 

It seems a cruel thing to do, and yet our only vague 
hope depends upon it. 

Lola and I are waiting in a little parlor of the private 
asylum, when the nurse comes to us with it. 

With fingers that tremble so that they can scarcely per- 
form their office, Lola opens the bag. 

The first thing she draws from it is a locket. 

She holds it in her hand for one moment before press- 
ing the spring, seeming to grow faint and cold with a 
nameless feeling which she cannot understand. 

I have told her nothing. 

My excitement is scarcely less than her own. 

She grows pale and cold. I catch both her hands in 
my own and whisper words of encouragement I am far 
from feeling. She smiles at me in acknowledgment and 
opens the case. 

It is as I thought. 

^^Why, Jack,"’ says Lola, in amazement, ^^that is not 
my father, and he looks like you.” 

Yes, yes,” I say, trembling from head to foot. Now 
let us see what else there is.” 

She takes a tiny paper from the bag next, and looking 
over her shoulder, as she unfolds it, I read aloud: 

Marriage certificate.” 

Before I can see the names of the parties, the paper 
drops from Lola’s nerveless fingers. 

I pick it up and look again. 

“ Good God!” I ejaculate. 

My lips are so cold and stiff that I can scarcely articu- 
late a word. 

What is it?” gasps Lola, grasping my arm like a 


names,”! say, holding out to her the 
paper, which shakes as though blown by the wind 

Veronique Couppia and Arthur Wilton,” she reads, 

Lk V it mean?’’ 

looKing at me appealingly. 

"'It means that your mother and my father were at 
one time husband and wife,” I answer, ilowly, my calnv 
]i^s§ having, ma moasuvo, returned to me, 


ONl 


79 


“What!’’ she cries, faintly, sinking back in her chair. 
“ When? How? Can you not explain?” 

“No more than you can,” I say, steadily. ‘"I never 
dreamed of this, so help me Heaven! I believed there 
had been a love affair, perhaps an engagement,^^but my 
wildest imagination never went so far as this,” touch- 
ing the marriage certificate. 

She sits looking up at me in wide-eyed, helpless aston- 
ishment, as I lean over her chair. 

“ What are you to Vera, my sister, and me?” she asks 
at last, a great icy chill having crept into her voice. 

“ Nothing!” I answer. “Absolutely nothing.” 

“How is that?” she asks, so coldly that her voice 
sounds almost frozen. 

“lam my father’s youngest child,” I answer, “and 
you and your sister both are younger than I, consequently 
there must have been a divorce and another marriage 
contracted by each of them.” i v 

There is intense relief expressed in her face, and a lit- 
tle color slowly comes back to her pale cheeks, but still 
she is shaking as if with an ague. V -i. 

“ Let us examine the next paper,’’ I say nervously, “ it 
may throw more light upon the subject.” 

She slowly draws forth a soiled, crumpled paper, and 
as she holds it, I read from the outside: 

“Confession of Louise Drayton, made in my presence 
and sworn to this the eighteenth day June, in the year of 
Gur Lord eighteenth hundred and . 

(Signed) “Alexander Mildmay. 


hold it,” says Lola, thrusting the paper into 
my hands, and ?Delieve I have gone^blind, foi evei}- 

thing is of pitchy darkness around me.” , 

I hand her a glass of water, which revives her, then 
I kneel by her side where she can look over my shoulder, 
and, opening the paper, I read aloud: 

“ I Louise Drayton, knowing that I have but a few 
days to live, knowing that I have injured an innocent 
woman, and wishing for the mercy of my Blessed Ke- 
deemer, make this Confession of my wrong-doing, swear- 
ing that what I will tell shall be the truth, the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. 

“Nine years ago, come September next, 1 was en- 


80 


ONl. 


gaged as companion to Senorita Veroniqiie Oou 2 )pia. 
She was my friend as well as patroness, and I was al- 
lowed all the privileges of the house, whose sole ruler and 
mistress was this beautiful orphan girl. In every way she 
was kind, gentle, and considerate to me, allowing my 
relations and friends to become guests at her palatial 
home, but her indomitable pride held always a barrier be- 
tween her and her paid dependant, which made me hate 
her. 


^^One unfortunate day my brother, then my pet, my 
darling, my pride, came to visit me. He was following 
the sea as a profession and rising rapidly from the ranks, 
being a young man of great promise and much personal 
beauty. With what pride and love I introduced him to 
Senorita Couppia, only God and my own heart know. 

My brother, Paul Drayton, inherited the hot, pas- 
sionate temperament of his Spanish mother, together 
with the calculating resolution of his English father, 
and though I knew him to be capable of the most intense 
and violent hatred, yet I had never seeM him ivithout a 
smile upon his handsome lips and some wild, mirthful 
story to tell. He was the life of any house, and oh, God, 
how I loved him! 

/"Senorita Couppia listened to his tales of travel 
with that indolent grace which made her so attractive to 
all men, she allowed him to amuse her, she chatted with 
him in English, she played for him upon her harp, she 
even improvised accompaniments, while he sang his rol- 
licking ship songs, in his clear, delightful tenor voice, 
forgetting, because his sister was a dependant, and he 
a sailor, that Paul Drayton was a^ian, with a man's 
heart and all a man's capabilities of feeling ambition and 
hope and love. 

"" One day I awakened to the fact that my brother had 
fallen in love with my patroness. How could he help 
1 . Had not every other man done the same thing? 
Was he different from the rest, that he should nass the 
temptation by, because his clay had been made coarse by 
ins sister's poverty? ^ 

"" But I knew how it would all end! I foresaw it all, 
all the misery and despair and perhaps crime it would 
iiiore I hated her and loved him all the 


I told him my fears, but he patted my cheek and 
told me, m his light-hearted, happy manner, to find 
something better to fret about than my big brother. 

At last Arthur Wilton, a young man, then Slinister to 
Spain from the United States, came to us. He was hand- 
some, elegant, distinguished. There was no longer any 
doubt in my mind, for I saw at a glance what the end 
would be. 

How I pitied my poor boy! 

It came about all too soon. My brother came to me 
and I shall never forget his face as I saw it that day. 
All the bright, pretty color had died from his face, leav- 
ing it cold and gray and old. He shivered and drew his 
coat tightly around him, though the weathei* was stifling 
in its heat. His eyes had lost their old merry expression 
and their misery and wretchedness was frightful. 

Before he spoke, I knew what had happened. 

^ Do not say it!’ I cried. ^ I know already!’ 

^^The smile with which he tried to answer me was piti- 
ful, drawing his white, set lips into a straight line, from 
which every look had fled but misery. 

^ Curse her!’ I say, clinching my hands, and beating 
them against the air in my unhappiness. ^ Curse her! 
She shall pay dearly for this! She shall suffer as you are 
suffering, and through that blonde lover of hers, whom 
she idolizes with all the southern fire of her nature. I 
swear it!’ 

If my brother’s face was pale before it was ghastly 
now. The pitiful, drawn expression leaves it; a wild, 
dangerous light leaps into his eyes, and a demoniacal 
^ laugh bursts from his set lips, which almost curdles my 
blood. I go over and put my hand upon his shoulder, 
endeavoring to quell the storm I have been instrumental 
in raising. 

^ Don’t look like that,’ I say to him in alarm, but he 
shakes my hand off, and, rising to his feet, staggers, like 
a drunken man. 

^So she loves him, does she?’ he says, in a dry, hard 
voice, ^ and I was only a plaything with which she could 
pass a few idle hours? Well, so be it!’ laughing again 
in that low, fiendish tone winch chills and frightens me 
so, ‘but she shall pay for it with her very heart’s blood! 


m 


ONI 

Before God, I swear it! She loves 7iimf How 1 shall 
torture her! Kemember, Louise, I have sworn. 

He rushes from the room with that wild light of 
madness still gleaming in his miserable eyes, and I see 
him no more for four long, seemingly interminable 

^^^an the meantime, Senorita Couppia became Senora 
AVilton, and to them was born a child, and we had all re- 
moved to America. 

I say " we,' for I had never left my employer, know- 
ing that nowhere would I meet with such kindness or 
freedom as with her. 

The love between her and her handsome husband 
amounted almost to idolatry. He worshiped her, and what 
she gave in return was almost more. 

At last one day, my brother returned. He had fol- 
lowed us from Spain, finding no difficulty in tracing us. 
When I looked into his handsome face, showing to my 
watchful eyes, unmistakable signs of dissipation, I knew 
that he had not forgotten his resolve against the woman 
who had ruined his life and that he had returned to put 
it into execution. I trembled with fear and apprehension, 
but he knew he could count upon my doing whatever he 
told me. 

We arranged the plan between us, the plot which has 
hung over my conscience like a leaden pall ever since, 
robbing my days of peace and my nights of sleep, for I 
knew I had done worse than killed her. 

She received my brother into her house, making him 
welcome for his good, faithful sister's sake, she said, and 
she was kind to him in her own sweet, condescending 
way, but my brother, with my help, made it appear dif- 
ferent to tlie naturally jealous husband. 

‘‘Upon his return from his business engagements, we 
always contrived to have him find Paul with his wife, and 
my brother would leave her in a manner which he knew 
would attract the husband's attention. Plainly it had 
begun to tell, as we lioped it should. 

“One day Mr. Wilton was summoned away and ex- 
pected to be gone about two weeks. It was their first 
separation, and both were as full of grief as though it 
were to be for years. 

“ When he had been away about five days, I received a 


ONL 


83 


letter from him telling me that he would return the fol- 
lowing night, and that he wished to surprise his wife and 
in consequence did not wish me to tell her. He told me 
the hour he expected to return, writing a' kind, frank, 
friendly letter. 

1 showed it to my brother. 

His face flushed with excitement, that was almost 
painful to see. 

^ Our time has come at last,^ he whispered below his 
bre at h . ' At last ! At last !’ 

The following day Mrs. Wilton (as I had learned to 
call her since coming to America) had a violent headache 
and after a light dinner retired to her room and went to 
bed. 

was almost Mrs Wilton’s exact size and form, with 
the same dark Spanish hair, though Heaven knows my 
face was different enough. 

^^It was a warm, lovely night, and after i had arrayed 
myself in a lemon-brocade and white lace, a magniflcent 
gown belonging to Mrs. Wilton, and her husband’s favor- 
ite of all her gorgeous wardrobe, we opened the windows, 
letting the soft rays of moonlight stream into the other- 
wise darkened room. 

Presently we heard a quick, elastic Pstep, coming up 
the pretty walk of the lawn, and then we began to enact 
in the moonlight the little scene we had prepared. 

I placed my arms around Paul’s neck and laid my 
head upon his shoulder, pretending to sob in an agony of 
grief. ■ 

^ Don’t, my darling,’ my brother said, in soft, well 
modulated tones, ^ you will break my heart. Oh, love, 
why must we live all our wretched lives apart. Come 
away with me. Come! We will go to the ends of the 
earth, where none will ever hear of us, and be so happy, 
you and I, who understand each other and love each other 
so. Don’t hesitate, my darling, but say you will come! 
say you will!’ 

1 cling round his neck and Anally say, between sobs, 
which hide the difference in our voices: 

‘ I will go with you, Paul.’ 

He strains me to his breast and kisses me passion- 
ately, being careful to keep the back of my head to the 
window, 


84 


ONI. 


There is a smothered imprecation from ^e outside, 
a low, terrible groan of mortal anguish, and Paul and' i 
know we have crushed the heart of the man who has 
taken from him the woman my brother loves. 

Mr. Wilton will listen to no word his wife has to say. 
He challenges my brother to fight a duel, but Paul, un- 
accustomed to handling arms of any kind, leaves the 
country for a time. 

My friend and patroness never suspected me ot hav- 
ing done my part in breaking her heart, for it is bioken, 
if human hearts can break. 

The records of the divoi’ce court will tell the rest. 

I left Mrs. Wilton soon after the horrible affair, be- 
ing unable to bear the look of silent, patient suffering in 

her lovely eyes. ^ ^ ^ ivr 

“ I make this confession in the hope that she and Mr. 
Arthur Wilton may forgive me for my part in wrecking 
their lives as I hope God in heaven will forgive me for 
that and my other sins. 

Witness: Louise Daytoi^. 

Alexander Mildmay.” 


For a few moments after I have ceased reading Dolores 
remains silent, her face covered with her white hands. 

How sorry I am for her and how sorry for my poor 
father. 

You must not grieve so, dear child,""^ I say, remov- 
ing her hands from her face. '"It will all come right 
now."*^ 

"'How my poor mother has suffered,^^ she says at last 
in a voice shaken with emotion. " How can I ever make 
up to her for all these lost years of happiness?” 

" You cannot,” I answer. ""The days that are dead 
will never come back to us, but we can make her future 
peaceful and happy. Thank God my mother died before 
this discovery was made.” 

" Why?” asks Lola in some surprise. 

"‘ Because my father loves the wife of his youth. Be- 
cause her memory and her face form the very nucleus of 
his heart even yet. This I know.” 

" Thank God!” breathes Lola fervently, 

I cannot echo her thanksgiying, rememteiiffg niy 
mothev's sweet, sad f^ce. 


ONI. 


85 


Is that all that is in the bag?^^ I ask, grateful that 
there is another subject upon which I can speak. 

She puts her hand once more into the bag, and this 
time draws forth a tiny paper, the last it contains. 

She hands it to me and I open it. 

Before my astounded eyes these words appear: 

‘^Certificate of birth of Howard Nestor Wilton, son of 

Arthur and Veronique Wilton, born in , Spain, 

January 21, 18 — 


CHAPTER XVII. 

For some minutes I stare straight at Dolores without 
speaking. I never was so astonished in all my life. 

“What does it mean?" she says at last, in a slow, 
hoarse whisper. “ You must explain it to me. I can 
understand nothing, nothing!" 

“I hardly know myself," I answer, after a great 
effort. “It must mean that Howard is your mother’s 
son." 

Her face wears a look of puzzled misery which I can 
not fathom. She grasps both my hands in hers, which 
are cold as ice, and says so huskily that her voice is al- 
most unrecognizable: 

“And you? You are not— my brother! For God’s 
sake tell me that it is not so!" 

“Heaven forbid!" I say, fervently, remembering my 
love for Oni. 

Her face is ghastly in its pallor, and large drops of 
perspiration stand out around her mouth, bearing wit- 
ness of an agony which I cannot understand. She rises 
from her seat and walks rapidly up and down the little 
room. 

“ That would be horrible, monstrous!" she says, in low 
quivering accents. 

She must be thinking of Oni and me. 

I go to her, and putting my arm around her, draw her 
down upon a sofa beside me. 

“You must calm yourself, Lola," I say to her tenderly. 
“I see nothing in all this to agitate you so. Your 
mother was wronged grievously, but we cannot bring 
back the past, we can only try to clear it up and make 
the future happy if we can, It is not a pleasant thought 


ONI. 


that Howard, a — never mind what he was —should havo 
been your brother, but he is dead, and surel}'^ death wipes 
out even such sins as his/^ 

It is not that, not that,'" she says with an intense sob 
in her dry throat, but why may not you -have been a 
younger son by the same marriage?"' 

Nonsense!" I say, a trifle impatiently. Could any 
one deceive you about your own mother? And even if it 
were so " 

1 pause, thinking of the awful crime the alternative 
would have made me contemplate. 

A shiver shakes her from head to foot. 

** ^ And even if it were so," "" she repeats after me, in a 
voice from which every trace of music has fled. Great 
God, Jack, can't you see, or are you willfully blind?" 

She throws her arms over her gray, cold, miserable 
face, and I am glad she has shut it out from my sight. 

Still I do not understand! 

I am silent because I know not what to say. 

Presently she removes her arms and smiles, but the 
smile is more pitiful than tears. 

am not very brave at bearing trouble. Jack," she 
says, almost humbly, ‘^though I have known little else 
in my life. I have treated you to a ridiculous exhibition, 
and 1 want you to forgive me and forget it," 

I must look awfully like a fool as I sit gaping at her, 
but I smooth back her hair gently and hand her her hat, 
which she has laid aside. 

^‘1 don't think I quite comprehend you, Lola," I say, 

but I hope you feel sure of my sympathy. Come, it is 
quite late, and we must go now. Will you trust me with 
these papers for a few days?" 

Trust you?" she says, looking at me wistfully. Oh, 
Jack, with what would I not trust you!" 

I take leave of Dolores at her own door, and going im- 
mediately to a telegraph office, I send the following 
message: 

Mr. Arthur Wilton, Station, Gloucester Co., Va. 

Great case on. Come at once. Don't fail. 

^'J. H. Wilton." 

On the second day after, when I return to my rooms at 
midday, I find my father awaiting me, 


So the ^ great case ’ has come, has it, Jack?^^ he asks, 
after we have greeted each other affectionately. I am 
glad of that, though I never predicted much of a future 
for you as a lawyer.’^ 

I laugh lightly, though I am feeling rather nervous. 

I don^t think you will be much deceived either, sir,” 
I say. I think of giving up tire law.” 

And you will come back to the farm?” asks my father 
eagerly. 

No, not that.” 

‘^Then in what way do you expect to earn that' daily 
bread, of which we all stand in need? Surely you don’t 
expect the manna to be showered from heaven as in the 
olden time.” 

Hardly, sir,” I say, laughing. 

And you say you never mean to marry, consequently 
you can’t contemplate making an ass and knave of your- 
self by spending a woman’s money. 

Decidedly not, sir,” I answer, still smiling. 

I am going to live many years yet, so you can’t get 
much from me.” 

I devoutly hope you may, sir.” 

Then how in the devil do you expect to live?” ques- 
tions my father, testily. 

^^By singing!” I answer. 

^^Bosh!” says he, with more force than elegance. 

But you have never heard me sing, father,” I say, 
deprecatingly. 

"'Have I not, indeed! I have heard you at that old 
piano at home until you almost drove every one out of the 
county. I have heard the woods ring with your bawling 
until there was not a bird to be shot for six weeks on ac- 
count of fright.” 

i But you have never heard me with all the effects,” 
I say, laughing heartily. "Wait until you hear me in 
an opera house, with all the lights and applause, and a 
big, well- drilled orchestra.” 

"Nonsense! I’ll do nothing of the kind. I hope you 
are not going to let that idiotic idea interfere with this 
" great case ’ you have on hand.” 

I am sobered at once. I hixd not forgotten, but was 
only trying to gain time in which to think how best to in- 
troduce the subject. 


ONI. 


m 

He notices the change in me, and says kindly: 

Well, my boy, what is it?"" 

I hope you will excuse me, father, for getting you 
here upon a false pretext,^" I begin nervously, but it was 
necessary for me to see you, and I knew that was the only 
way for me to accomplish it."" 

My father is angry. 

hate a lie,"" he says, almost harshly, no matter 
what justification it may have."" 

‘‘It was not exactly a lie, sir,"" I say, meekly, “ but a 
prevarication."" 

“ Perhaps you will explain, without any more circum- 
locution."" 

“ I will try to, sir,"" I say, somehow feeling unaccount- 
ably nervous. 

My father looks at me with a stony sort of stare not in 
the least encouraging, but I gather my forces, twist the 
button upon my coat until it hangs by a single thread, 
and begin: 

“The last night of my stay at the Grange, sir,"’ I say 
hesitatingly, “ you were good enough to honor me with a 
portion of your confidence."" 

I pause and wait for him to speak. 

He rewards me with a gloomy frown. 

I am half tempted to simply hand him the papers in 
my possession and let them speak for themselves, but 
that would be too cruel, coming upon him when he is un- 
prepared. 

“ I hope you will forgive me, sir, but since then I — I 
have been doing a little detective work upon my own ac- 
count. "" 

“ By what right, sir,” says my father, sternly, “have 
you presumed to inquire into my personal affairs, which 
you knew I did not care to have you know?"" 

“ By the right of my affection for my father, and my 
desire to see the remainder of his days passed in peace 
and contentment,"" I say, a trifie stung by his repellent 
manner. 

He grows decidedly less frigid, in fact, there is some 
degree of warmth in his voice as he asks: 

“To what has your amateur work led?"" 

“ To the discovery of the lady,"" I answer, as quietly 
as I can. ^ 


ONI. 


89 


He covers his face with his hand for a moment, and 
maintains dead silence. I wait for him to recover some- 
what from the shock of my words before I proceed. 

What good has that knowledge done you?” he asks, 
at last. If lam not mistaken, I told you her name 
myself.” 

It is not only her name, but herself, that I have dis- 
covered,” I say, slowly. 

What is that to me?” says my father, rising to his 
feet unsteadily. You have surely not stooped to a lie, 
and brought me from Virginia here to tell me this. If 
she stood in this very room, beside me now, I should 
scorn her as I have scorned her for years, for she was 
false, false as ” 

I raise my hand and interrupt him before he can com- 
plete his sentence. 

^^Hush, sir,” I say, firmly, but respectfully. Do not 
complete that sentence. Bememher she was your wife.” 

‘"So you have discovered that too, have you?” says my 
father, with a slight sneer upon his lips. "" Did you also 
learn how I worshiped' her, how I was her slave? fool, 
idiot that I was. Did you learn how, after our baby was 
born, my wild, passionate idolatry increased until I for- 
got everything upon earth, or in heaven, human or 
divine? Dolt madman that I was. Did you learn how 
she deceived me and took for her paramour a low-born 
sailor, and brother to one of her own paid servants? My 
God, why have you brought all this upon me again to day! 
Could 1 not enjoy an hour in God’s free air, with my own 
son, without having that hideous past brought back 
again? I try to forget, but the disgusting, loathsome 
memory is with me always, always.” 

He walks rapidly up and down the floor as he speaks, 
his eyes blood-shot, his nostrils dilated, his breath com- 
ing thick and fast, the bare remembrance seeming to 
make him rave in what he considers and believes to be 
his outraged honor. 

""Father,” I say, intercepting his walk and standing 
before him with my hands under my coat tails. "" What 
if I tell you that I have learned that you believed all that, 
and that I have also learned more, much more. What if 
I tell you that Veronique Wilton was not the vile creat- 
ure you believed her? AVhat if I tell you that it was all 


90 


ONI. 


a miserable, heartless mistake? What if I tell you that 
after all these years her innocence is established?"’ 

My father’s"' ghastly face has become crimson. He 
glares at me fiercely and lays his hand heavily upon my 
shoulder. 

"*Boy,” he says, in a parched, hard voice, "'do you 
know what you are saying? Do you realize what your 
words mean to me? Bah!” — pushing me from him with 
a force that almost makes me lose my balance—" I dare 
say your intentions are good enough, but it is a mis- 
taken kindness. There can be no error. I saw with my 
own eyes, I heard with my own ears ” — laughing slowly, 
miserably. 

"Was it not possible that you might have mistaken 
Louise Drayton for her in the moonlight, when you could 
see only her back?” 

How shall I describe my father’s face. 

Doubt, fear, love, and longing are so blended, then 
Avith the change of thought comes a look of passionate 
agony which I have never seen equaled upon any human 
face. 

"What do you know of all this? Who has told you? 
Speak and quickly.” 

" Sit down, sir,” I say gently. 

Like a child he obeys me. 

I take from my pocket the papers which I know will 
prove of such incalculable value to him, and place them 
in his hands. 

"Bead those,” I say slowly. " They will explain bet- 
ter than I can.” 

He looks at me with wide-open, almost frightened eyes 
for a moment, then with hasty, nervous fingers begins to 
examine them. 

I leave him and walk over to the windoAV, standing 
with my back to him, but listening intently- for any 
sound he may make. 

Except the turning of the papers, I hear nothing for 
a long time. 

At last, when l am about to go to him to see that all is 
right, he touches me upon the arm. 

His face is working convulsively, his dry, tearless 
eyes have a set stare^ which gives him the horrible^ 


ONI 


§1 


^liastly appearance of a corpse acted upon by galvan- 
ism. 

^MVhere is slieP^^he asks in a hoarse^, discordant whis- 
per. 

The hardest part of my task has come. Well, I sup- 
pose the quickest way is kindest. 

You must be prepared for an awful shock, father 

I begin. 

Death?'’ he interrupts, speaking the word almost 
mechanically. 

No, not dead." 

I pause again, dreading the effect of my announce- 
ment. 

Anything is better than suspense," he says, in ar slow 
monotonous way. 

Remember, father, before I tell you, that we hope 
for her recovery." 

She is ill?" he questions, before I can finish speak- 
ing. 

Yes," I answer. ^^She has been for thirteen years 
the- inmate of a mad-house." 

Never while I live will I forget the horrible -groan of 
anguish which burst from my father's lips. 

The vengeance of God for my stubbornness and 
wrong-doing," he says, in a loudjvoice of torturing agony. 

^ I will repay.' Oh, heavenly Father, the punishment 
is greater than I can bear." 

He throws up his arms, and before I can catch him, he 
falls forward at my feet, mercifully deprived of conscious- 
ness by that God whose pity he has invoked. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The physician whom I have summoned and I work 
over my father for a long time before we succeed in re- 
storing him to consciousness. 

Then for some hours I sit by his side, as he reclines 
upon my bed, and tell him all the story as I have learned 
it, withholding nothing. 

He assures me of one thing, of which I have before 
felt certain, that though Howard, were he alive, w'ould 
be the half-brother of Dolores Vegas, I am in no wise re- 
lated to her. 


m 


ONI. 

At last, when I feel that it is safe to leave him, 1 go 
to keep an appointment with Dolores, and to tell her 
how my father has received the information I had to 
give. 

I am shown into her magnificently appointed drawing- 
room by one of the servants, and left to wait. I am 
fully half an hour earlier than she has expected me. 

As I sit awaiting her, I am startled by hearing a sob. 
It is a common enough sound to me of late, and I fail to 
see why it should surprise me, but it does. 

At first I am puzzled to know from whence the sound 
proceeds, but I finally decide in my own mind, and going 
to on6 corner of the octagon-shaped room, I draw a por- 
tiere, a gorgeous piece of rare old tapestry aside, and find 
something which I never knew existed in the house, an, 
artist’s studio. 

I shall never forget the room as I saw it then, a marvel 
of art. Upon the walls were pictures executed by a 
master hand.. Scenes of eastern life, with their rich, 
brilliant coloring, studies, grown dim with age, but of 
too valuable a character to be retouched save by a hand 
of as much experience as their original executor; bright 
little creations of spring and summer, relieved by poetic 
revelations like the saddened memory of Abelard and 
Heloise. 

The furniture of the room consisted of exquisite 
couches of rare device, cushions and enormous decorated 
satin pillows, thrown with careless grace about the room. 

In one end of the room is a large easel on which a 
picture rests, screened from all save sacred gaze, by hang- 
ings of rich crimson silk. 

Before the easel, dressed in a flowing Grecian costume 
of dead whiteness, relieved by strappings of gold, stands 
a lady. Her perfect neck and arms are bare, and above 
the elbow upon each arm she wears the broad gold band 
which completes the Grecian dress. 

It does not need a second glance to tell me that it is 
Dolores. 

She has the edges of the scarlet silk drapery in her 
hands, ready to draw it over the* pictured face upon the 
easel, evidently something of her own creation. 

Before I can warn her of my presence she begins to 
speak. 


ONI. 


08 


1 would give my life,” she says, with a sob of intense 
pathos in her voice,^ '"to see that love light in his eyes 
for me which her name can call there, but^ it will never 
be, never. Of what use is all my landed beauty, over 
which they tell me kings would rave? He does not see it, 
or if he does, is so indifferent! My God, must I have all 
the bitter and none of the sweet which every soul upon 
earth but me seems to enjoy? Oh, Father, give me the 
veriest beggaFs place, but give me his love, my darling, 
my darling. Was she so much more beautiful than I, so 
much better and truer than I, that he should love even 
her memory so much more and find no room for me? 
I would be satisfied with so little, so little, but he has 
nothing to give, nothing! Oh, God in heaven, pity me.” 

She falls on her knees in front of the easel, her arms 
across the pictured face, and I advance into the room. 

How sorry I am for her, and who can be the man who 
can resist such charms as hers, my poor, unhappy Dolores. 

I can scarcely find words in which to speak to her, they 
seem so weak compared with her great sorrow. 

Before I can think of what to say, she removes her 
arms from across the picture to put her handkerchief to 
her eyes, and to my consternation and horror, the face 
which smiles at me from the canvas is my oion. 

The scales have fallen from my blind eyes at last. 

With hands that tremble from emotion, I draw the silk 
scarf to hide my own image from myself. 

It has grown hateful to me. 

God, how I despise myself. ^ 

It is too late for recriminations or self-denunciation 
now, but oh. Father of mercy! how can I pursue the only 
course left open to me? The thought is hideous. 

" Lola,” I force myself to say at last. 

As she looks up at me, shame and love fight for mas- 
tery in her eyes. 

I am ashamed to confess it, I loathe myself for the 
thought, but it disgusts me. 

I do not offer to touch her, and she slowly and un- 
steadily rises to her feet alone. 

She sits upon the couch and presses her jeweled, beau- 
tiful-hands across her eyes. . t i 

As she does so, I contrast her with Oni as 1 saw her 
that day among the violets. 


04 


om. 


An angel from licavon would have suffered by the com- 
parison. 

You must have heard me, Jack,"' Lola, says, after 
a long pause. How shall I ever look you in the face 
again?" 

Lola," I say, with a steadiness in my voice which sur- 
prises me, will you' be my wife?" 

She looks at me quickly, eagerly, but I do not attempt 
to disguise the cold calmness of my face. 

AYith all the passion of which her hot, Spanish tem- 
perament is eapable, she springs to her feet and confronts 
me. 

‘‘^No, a thousand times no!" she says, her glorious eyes 
blazing with wrath. Do you think I am so poor a 
thing that I would accept a man because he pitied me?" 
— jerking her words out as if each one was an effort for 
her. "^Do you think I am so lost to all sense of wom- 
anly dignity that I would accept a man with that deadly 
coldness upon his face? Do you think I am weak enough 
to accept a man who would despise me for my very love ? 
Your offer is almost an insult, siid I am not a dog, to 
accept the crumbs which fall from another's table!" 

She sweeps by me, her regal beauty intensified and 
strengthened by the dignity of a justifiable anger. 

^^Lola," I say, pleadingly, scarcely knowing what I am 
saying or why I do it. 

She turns and looks at me with hard, pitiless coldness 
in her eyes. 

After all why should I not love this good and beauti- 
ful woman? I make up my mind in that one second's 
hesitation that I do care for her as much as I can ever 
care for any woman, now that I have lost Oni. 

The nature of man will predominate. There has been 
some opposition, now I must succeed. 

Will you forgive me?" I ask, humbly. 

“ I forgive you," she answers, icily. 

That is not forgiveness from you," I say, earnestly. 
“ It would be all I should ask from another woman, but 
not from you." 

‘‘ I wmuld sooner have expected that from any man 
than you, Jack," she says, softening a very little. ‘^But 
it was almost like an avowal of contempt for me, and 
from inspiring such a sentiment as that may the gods 


ONI. 


95 


preserve me. I suppose I ought to thank you, however, 
for you have shown me what a fool I have been, and — 
smiling somewhat grimly — don^'t suppose it will re- 
quire a very sharp pull to get my unruly heart in place 
again.” 

You are.cruel, Lola,” I say, still retaining my stand 
across the room and not attempting to approach her. 
''Will you listen while I tell you the simple truth?” 

She makes a gesture of assent and sinks upon a pile of 
satin pillows, folding her hands tightly in her lap. 

I can see quite plainly the restraint she is putting upon 
herself. 

"It would be useless for me to tell you how I loved 
her, w^hom we both believe to have been your sister. 
You know that the first real love of my life, the bloom 
of the peach, the dew of the flower, was given to her, 
perhaps unheeded. The light of my life, the springtime 
of my existence, ended on that night when I saw her al- 
most in death’s grasp, from which no hand but God’s 
could rescue her. 

"You know all that as well as I can tell you. In niy 
heart I made a vow. It was that because of the sacrifice 
she made for me and because of the great and unquench- 
able love I bore her, I would devote my whole life to her 
memory. I lost my opportunity while she lived, but dead, 
she should always reign in my heart its undisputed mis- 
tress. I would speak to no woman of love, 1 would seek 
to call no woman wife.” 

" Keep your vow. Jack,” says Lola with a little illy 
suppressed ring of pide in her voice. I have no wish 
to make you break it.” 

" I have broken it,” I say quietly. 

"How? When?” she asks looking at me in some sur- 
prise. 

" When I asked you to become my wife.” 

Her face falls and grows cold again. 

"And if ever a face pleaded for a 'no’ yours did,” she 
says dryly. 

" Let me go on, Dolores. When I heard the Avords 
von spoke and which were intended for no ear but 
God’s, my heart went out to you in sorrow for your 
trouble; never dreaming to whom you referred, and when 


ONI. 


96 

I saw whose face those hangings concealed, it gave me a 
shock from which I have scarcely yet recovered. 

It was the first time such a thought had ever presented 
itself to me and for the moment it appeared hideous to 
me, as if I had been your sister's husband. Then it was 
an awakening. For the first time it occurred to me that 
I had no right, in my blind selfishness, to live out my 
life alone, demoted to a memory, and to the memory of a 
girl who perhaps did not love me save in that wild pas- 
sionate way which a lonely child felt for almost her first 
friend. 

It was a cruel tearing away of a romantic veil, and on 
the impulse, with the chill of the death of my dreams 
still upon me, I spoke. 

Can you forgive me now?" 

I stretch out both my hands to her and she comes to 
me without a word. 

I grasp her hands cordially and then release her. 

“Now, Dolores, listen further. I have an unfortunate 
advantage of you, but I shall speak only the truth. You 
know the past. You know I have not the warm first love 
of a young heart to offer you, but I have lived for months 
with a vision and nursing a love which can be of no use 
to any one. I cannot change the past, but I can alter 
the future. I tvill love you, Lola, some day as you deserve, 
and until that time comes will you be content with 
what I have to give? Will you trust me and promise to 
be my wife?" 

I hold out my arms to her again, and she throws her- 
self into them, sobbing pitifully. 

“I will trust you. Jack; I will be content; for oh, my 
love, I love you so!" 

And it is to my affianced wife that I tell the scene 
through which my father and I have passed. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

To-day we have set apart for our test at the asylum. 
We are all in a fever of excitement. 

The doctors expect little or no results, but Dolores and 
I feel sure that our hopes cannot be so blighted, and my 
father says little, but the restless, quivering light in his 
eyes shows his feeling more than words, 


ONI. 


97 


He and Dolores have formed a strong friendship dur- 
ing their few days’ acquaintance, and he is delighted that 
I have decided to bring home a wife. 

Upon this subject I do not allow myself to think at 
all, feeling sure that is the safer way. 

We are all at the asylum, and Mrs. Vegas is prepared 
to receive us: 

Dolores and I enter into her presence first, the doctors 
being present in a remote corner of the room. 

How pretty she looks, as I see her to-day for the first 
tinie. 

Her hair, which has been cut short to prevent her pull- 
ing it out in her raving, clusters in close, soft curls about 
her well-shaped head, giving her a wonderfully youthful 
appearance, and is as black as night. Her eyes glitter 
and dance with that restless brilliancy which belongs to 
the insane. A beautiful, soft, peach-blow color is upon 
her cheeks; her lips are a vivid carmine. She wears a 
simple dress of white muslin, without color of any kind. 

Altogether, she is pitifully lovely. 

There is a decided resemblance to her daughters, and 
yet she is unlike, though I can scarcely define where the 
difference lies. 

Mamma, says Dolores, kissing her fondly, have 
brought to see you the gentleman whom I have promised 
to marry. I hope you will like him. Let me introduce 
him to you. Mrs. Vegas, Mr. Wilton.’^ 

She speaks to her exactly as though she were in and of 
the world. 

Mrs. Vegas extends her hand to me in a sweet, simple 
manner, which touches me infinitely. 

I am glad to see you, Mr. Wilton — Wilton — Wilton.” 

She continues to repeat the name in a puzzled, dreamy 
sort of way, and then suddenly breaks off with a little 
mirthless laugh. 

beg your pardon, but I imagined I had heard the 
name before. It is a way my head has of late years. I 
hope you will be good to my little girl, Mr. — Mr. — I can’t 
quite remember your name.” 

‘‘Jack,” I say as lightly as I can. 

“ Oh, yes. Jack,” she sa3^s, smiling sweetly, as though 
that was the name she had heard before. Sit down, 
Jack, sit down, Dolores.” 


98 


ONI. 


We both do as she desires, and she draws a chair up 

she says, slipping her hand into mine 
cordially. am glad you are going to marry my 

daughter. By the way, Lola, you will be glad to know 
that Vera will be here to*day. Vera is Lola s sistei — 
turning to me with a little pathetic smile. I know she 
will come for God toldnie so.” 

Will you not be glad to have a son, mamma? asks 
Dolores, anxious to turn her mind from that other sub- 

^^^^^^ Ason! a son!”— a little shadow crossing her face. 
"^That was hundreds of years ago. Ugh!”— a shiver 
shaking her from head to foot — I was so cold then, so 
cold; and the flowers drooped and the lights went out 
and the whole big world was dark. You don^t know 
what flowers are, do you, dear?” — to Dolores. ‘^"Ihey 
have never bloomed since then. I was happy then. 
Such a strange, strange thing to be happy. What 
brought all that sunshine and beauty into my heart, 
dear? I have not seen the sun for a hundred long 

years.” . „ i 

You must not speak like that, darling, says Dolores 
with a little sob in her voice. ‘"You are going to be 
happy again, so happy that you will forget there was ever 
any misery in the world.” 

“I don^t know, my pet,” says Mrs. Vegas with intense 
sadness. “ Something, I can’t tell what, has put strange 
things in my head to-night, and there seems to be resur- 
rections of the dead, and a long buried past comes up 
before me. The objects are not quite clear; if the sun 
would only shine I could see, and there is a rush of 
mighty waters in my ears that drowns all sound.” 

At that moment my father, receiving a signal from 
the doctors, enters. 

A red spot burns in either cheek, and his suppressed 
excitement is terrible. 

He is just in a line with her vision, and he stops short 
just inside the door. 

There is breathless silence in the room. 

My heart makes such a noise that I am afraid it will 
interfere. 

Her eyes rest full upon his face. 


ONL 


99 


She stares at him in stony silence for a full minute, 
then as though led by some invisible hand, she rises 
slowly, painfully from her chair, and with a blank ex- 
pression in her wide-open eyes, she advances toward him, 
tottering with each step as though she hdifl suddenly 
grown old. 

She goes closely to him and stares in his face, then 
draws her hand across her eyes and looks again; finally 
she puts out her hand and touches him. 

A horrible cry bursts from her lips, a cry of dismay, 
and pain, and fear. 

It echoes through the apartment and down the long 
corridor until the whole place seems to ring with the 
long, frightful cry which ends in the name: 

Dolores r"* 

In an instant Dolores is at her side, her arms around 
her mother^s waist. 

^^Do you see that says Mrs. Vegas, with one hand 
clutching wildly at Dolores, with the other pointing to 
my father. ‘‘That is the dead past!- He took the sun 
away, and the moon, and the stars. He made it so cold 
that the earth froze and the flowers died.” 

“ But he has come back, Vera,” says my father, his 
voice trembling with emotion, “ to bring warmth, and 
happiness, and love. Will you take him back, my dar- 
ling?” 

“Where is the paper?” she mutters to herself, not 
heeding him and fumbling in her bosom. “ Oh, where 
is the paper! Ah, here, here!” 

With a quick, sharp movement she breaks the string 
of the imitation bag and thrusts it into his hands. 

“There, there!” she says in great excitement. “She 
told me to do that!” 

“I know all, Vera. Will you not take me back to your 
heart again?” my father says, stretching out his arms to 
her. 

She leaves Dolores and goes up to my father, clutch- 
ing one of his hands and looking unsteadily into his 
eyes. 

“ Heart! Heart!” she says, in a slow, intense whisper. 
“ There are no hearts. I tell you, you are the dead past, 
dead, dead ! Do you know what ‘ forever ^ means? It means 
‘eternity,^ and that is the length and breadth and entire 


ONI. 


100 , 

boundless extent of the infinite. ^ We are parted for- 
ever ^ That is what you said in those old days when my 
heart and I lived together and were happy. Then came 
the mad rush of the sea, and save for the bosom of Ara- 
rat, as in the olden times, I should have been swept away. 
But I was received and sheltered and protected against 
the raging of the elements. One day the dove went 
forth and brought back the olive branch. It was the em- 
blem of peace, but I called it Dolores, which means ‘sor- 
row,^ because I could not comprehend that other word. 
But I knew the waters were receding. One day I stepped 
upon the earth, and 1 bore a fiower in my hand, which I 
called by my own name, and there seemed to come a lit- 
tle warmth and there was a faint glimmer of the sun, but ^ 
a cold breath from the past struck my fiower and it fell 
from my grasp. The wind took it up in its mighty 
power and it went on, on out of my sight forever. When 
I looked again the breath from the past had frozen the 
earth, and everything was ice and snow and frost. I was 
so cold, so cold! and the little protecting arm which was 
held out to me, the only thing upon earth which was not 
frozen, was too small and frail to hold me up; and unable 
to stagger forward, I sunk down overcome by that over- 
powering numbness which precedes death. God will not 
roll back his universe, there is nothing upon earth so cold 
in death as yesterday!’^ 

She ceases speaking, and raising herself to her full 
height, she stretches both arms above her head. 

Until God sends me my little one, the darkness will 
remain the same,"*^ she says, in a hoarse, vibrating voice, 

‘ ^ dense, impenetrable. ” 

Suddenly one hand comes down and points straight in 
front of her, the light of madness leaps into her eyes, her 
lips twitch and quiver convulsively. 

There he is! Vera, darling, come to mamma. You 
shall not have her! Coward! traitor! thief! Oh, help, 
help, help! . He is taking her from me! Oh, God! Oh, 
God! Oh, Godr 

One long shriek after another rings through the 
vaulted rooms, so blood-6urdling in their terrible inten- 
sity that they bring a blanched expression even to the 
doctors^ face. She beats the air with her little hands, 
and tosses and sways her body like a reed in the wind. 


ONI 


101 


The doctors come forward to take her from ns, and 
long after she has disappeared down the corridor, we 
hear those frightful cries and shrieks and groans. 

I do not believe any of us have thought of speaking, 
when one of the doctors returns. 

lie looks very sorrowfully at us, and speaks in low, sad 
accents when he says: 

'"As I feared, your test has failed. Only the child or 
God can do it now.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

Some weeks have elapsed since the events narrated in 
the last chapter, and I am utterly worn out, mind and 
body. 

My father has had a severe attack of fever, and would 
take his medicine from no hand but mine. 

Dolores also has been unwell, and my constant nursing 
has told upon my health, so much so that now both are 
well, they insist upon my taking the rest which I so much 
need, and a little change of air. 

After much discussion I decide upon a trip to Nova 
Scotia, believing the sea air will set me on my feet again 
in a little while. 

We are three days out, the weather overhead being of 
exquisite beauty, but the waves rolling high from no 
apparent cause. 

I know little of the sea, never having been upon the 
ocean before in my life; but I am called a good sailor 
because the pitching of the ship has no effect whatever 
upon me. 

Most of the passengers have been compelled to go 
below, and many even of those who remain on deck do 
it from sheer bravado. 

I am standing now beside the captain, who looks seri- 
ously at the heavens, but I am too much occupied with 
watching the big, red sun as she sinks in golden splendor 
behind the horizon, and leaves her ruby settings along the 
sky, to notice this. 

"It is bad! bad!” I hear the captain say, in his gruff, 
but kindly voice. 

" What is?” I ask, looking at him in surprise! 


102 


ONT. 


don't like this sea," he returns, still looking over- 
head, and that is an ugly cloud." 

‘^Do you fear a storm?" I ask, easily, not feeling the 

least alarm. 

He glances at me for a second and answers quietly.* 

^^Yes." 

He walks away, leaving me standing alone and gazing 
at the cloud he has pointed out to me. 

As I look it grows larger and larger, seeming to expand 
with the seconds, until within half an hour from the 
time he has spoken, the entire heavens seem to be of inky 
darkness. 

Almost every passenger has gone below, and silence 
prevails, broken only by the terrible lashing of the waves, 
and the hoarse commands given by the captain and re- 
peated by the mate. 

That it is no ordinary storm is all too plain from the 
captain's manner, aside from the frightful pitching of the 
ship and the angry roar of the waters. 

Suddenly the ship gives a lurch which seems to almost 
break her in twain, and instantly there is a rush of almost 
every passenger on board for the deck. 

Go below!" the captain calls. If a wave broke 
over the deck you might all be swept away." 

They huddle together in little groups — fortunately 
there are not many of them — and only a few obey the 
order. 

The storm is now in the height of its fury. 

The thunder roars with the noise of many cannons, the 
waves lash like mad things, and the lightning licks its 
lurid tongue along the heavens, seeming to end only in 
immeasurable distance. 

How long this continues, I don't think any of us can 
estimate, when a low, hoarse cry reaches us, which is ap- 
palling. 

A leak!" 

The passengers and some of the men crowd aft with 
awe-struck, anxious faces. 

Even the captain, for a moment, seems to be paralyzed 
by the awful words. 

The vessel is fully manned, and those not on duty are 
ordered to work at the pumps. 


ONI, 


103 


Water is pouring into the hold and the men are too 
busy to find out from whence the leak has sprung. 

With the storm above and the water pouring in from 
below, the ship is doomed! 

The men work like tigers at the pumps, the male pas- 
sengers taking a hand at relieving, but the water is gain- 
ing, and rapidly. 

The captain came down and sounded the well. There 
were nearly six feet of water! 

Many of the passengers knew better than I the horri- 
ble significance of those words. 

Presently a hoarse voice shouts: 

The life-boats! Man the life-boats.” 

'' Man, are you mad!” says the captain, gruffly. The 
boats would not live an hour in such a sea.” 

For another hour we work, work as only men who 
have but one hope for life can work, and then comes the 
cheering cry. 

The storm has broke!” 

But there is no hope for the ship. 

The last time the captain sounds the well, there ar^ji 
seven feet of water and a mad rush of more. 

It is useless,” he says. Man the boats. It is the 
only hope.” 

The women, I think, are even braver than the men, 
though, thank God, there are only a few. 

Biscuits and water, together with some meat and a 
little rum, are put into the long-boat and cutter, and the 
small-boat will not be needed. Then they are lowered 
into the sea, which, though calmed to a considerable ex- 
tent, is still rolling terribly. 

All hands have now left the pumps. 

The women were lowered into the boats first, and th(5 
men followed, taking their turns without a word. 

As I am about to step over the bulwarks, a pistol shot 
is heard from the cabin, followed by a long, hoarse call 
for help. 

It is like the last despairing wail of a lost soul before 
being plunged into eternity. 

What is that?” I ask, pausing in my descent. 

It is the sick man,” says one of the crew. We had 
forgotten him.” 

Just then the ship stood still and shook. 


104 


ONI. 


An expression of blanched terror comes over every 
face. 

You will not leave him?” I question in horror. 

'' There is no time to lose. It is every fellow for him- 
self now.” 

'^But he shall not he left to die like a dog,” I cry, 
springing back upon deck. 

You are a madman,” says the captain, laying his 
hand heavily upon my shoulder. The ship is sinking 
even now.” 

Not realizing my danger, I shake off his hand and rush 
headlong down into the cabin. 

It is pitch dark. 

^ MV here are you!” I shout at the top of my lungs. 

Speak quick, or we are lost.” 

A voice almost opposite me answers through the closed 
door, and throwing it open, I enter. 

For God’s sake, man, come quick,” Isay in a strained 
voice, ‘Mr we shall be too late.” 

4 I brush past something which I believe to be an over- 
coat. I snatch it down and wrap it about him, then half 
carrying, half leading him, I grope my way on deck 
again. 

Everything is as still as the grave, and I have no light 
save the dim twinkle of e^few stars. 

I look around me, and then the awful truth bursts 
upon me that the boats are gone! 

There is no time to indulge my horror or that faint, 
sickening sensation which almost overpowers me, but 
springing to the small boat, I lower it as I have seen the 
sailors do the larger ones. 

I help my companion over, and as I am about to fol- 
low, my foot strikes something. 

I pick it up, and it proves to be a can of water and a 
bag. What the bag contains I know not, but I pitch 
them into the boat, myself after, shove off, and we fall 
astern. 

I row with the energy of despair for some minutes, then 
rest upon my oars and watch the wounded ship. 

I am scarcely at a safe distance to keep from being 
sucked in as she goes down, -when she pitches forward, 
her bows go under water, and the next moment her stern 


OM. 


105 


settles down^ the sea opens its ponderous jaws and engulfs 
her. 

AYhile I look the moon breaks from her bondage, and 
shines' clear and full upon the terrible scene. 

^‘Now, God help us/M say fervently. ‘*1 wonder if 
we will live through the night. 

I turn to my companion to find out what he thinks of 
our situation. 

He is looking at me in the cold, brilliant moonlight 
with startled eyes in which burn intensest hatred. 

I leap to my feet, regardless of the rocking of the boat, 
for I recognize m the man for whom I have risked my 
life — in the man for whom it may yet be sacrificed — none 
other than Hoiuard Wilton, mv Irotlier, risen from the 
deadr 


CHAPTER XXL 

I STAKD for a full minute, looking straight into 
my brother's dark, handsome, diabolical, though some- 
what emaciated face, the boat rocking in the cradle of 
the waves. 

Then I fold my arms across my chest and say grimly: 
lastr 

He smiles that slow, exasperating smile I know so well, 
and says quite calmly: 

^‘DonT get melodramatic. Jack, in midocean and in a 
small boat. I know the moonlight answers very well for 
calcium effects, but this boat is not quite so steady as a 
raft. Sit down or we will upset, and I donT think a cold 
bath would be very beneficial to me now, particularly as 
it would be likely to be of indefinite length. 

‘‘Aon devil! You black-hearted cowardl’^ I hiss be- 
tween my teeth. 

My brother actually laughs aloud. 

‘‘1 think I have heard you say those words before, he 
says, dryly, “but they have less power to affect me now 
than then*. Indulge your fancy for those charming epi- 
thets if you like, but do sit down.’^ 

“Are you not afraid that I will kill you?” I ask, an- 
gered almost beyond endurance. 

^^Not in the least,” he answers, keeping his eyes 
quietly fixed upon me. “ You might allow a woman to 


ONL 


m 

sacrifice lier reputation for your sake, aud then have the 
nerve to call another man a coward, but I do not believe 
you would attack a defenseless sick man in the middle of 
the sea/^ 

I am almost speechless with rage. 

‘‘How dare you refei to that time when you know so 
well what has since occurred! How dave you breathe a 
thought of her to me! Tell me, coward, liar, thief, and 
murderer, where is Oni Gray?’' 

He leans comfortably back in his seat, and says, 
with a dreadtully bored expression upon his patrician 
face: 

“ What an inconsistent sort of a fellow you are. Jack! 
One moment it is ‘ how dare you,’ with an air that should 
be accompanied by a flourish of trumpets, and the next 
moment it is ‘ tell me of her/ Keally, it would be quite 
amusing, were i*-- not for the awful fear that you will upset 
this boat.” 

I am so disgusted, so enraged, that I can hardly sup- 
press my desire to throttle him, but, as he has said, I can- 
not attack a defenseless man, and one whose physical 
superior I am in every way. 

And I sit down. 

“How did you escape from that Milwaukee fire?” I ask, 
when my just anger will allow me to speak. 

“ By Jove!” he says, bending forward, and looking at 
me with interest, “ how did you know about that?” 

“ How do I know every act of your contemptible life 
up to that time,” I say, with disgust and hatred blended 
in my voice. 

“ Do you know all?” he says, with an easy laugh. “ My 
dear brother, what a niodel of virtue, integrity and char- 
ity you must think me. But now, since we are safe in 
this little shell for a few minutes, I can afford to indulge 
my curiosity. Pray, tell me how you knew about the 
Milwaukee fire.” 

“ Do you think I do not know that you left Virginia 
with Oni Gray?” 

“ Of course you know. I intended you should.” 

“ And I also know, coward, scoundrel, liar, the con- 
versation you had with her in that New York boarding- 
house, when you told her that I desired her to fly with 
you because detectives were on her track. Fly with you! 


ONL 


107 


Ae if I had not rather see her dead than in your power 
for a single moment. I know about the Milwaukee fire, 
because I saw you both at the window before the walls 

fell!” ■ , 

« Oil, fie!” says my brother, attempting playful scorn. 

And you never came to our assistance? Cruel. Fortu- 
nately others were not so heartless.'’’ 

‘^Howard!” I say, almost choking with rage, will you 
tell me where Oni G-raj^ is?” 

Why, really, dear boy,” he says, with a sweet, inno- 
cent smile, you are so excellent at detective work that 
I should like to see you work that out. I can’t tell you, 
really I can’t, you know, because I so want to see this 

evidence of your skill.” i t . 2 . 

1 set my teeth and clinch my hands hard to prevent 
myself from attempting murder upon a helpless man, 
and then, when I have mastered myself, I say cmmly: 

‘‘Look here, Howard, you have injured me sufticiently, 
surely. Only God knows how I loved you before that 
fatal night in the woods when I learned of your horrible 
crimes. Even then my one thought for you was pity. 

I allowed myself to be called a murderer for your sake, and 
I believe I would have allowed myself to almost sutter the 
penalty of the crime rather than betray you. How did 
you repay me for that? By blackening the reputation of 
the girl whom you knew I loved better than my life. 
You could have taken no more cruel revenge had I done 

you the most dastardly wrong. 

“To-nio'ht I have saved your life at the risk 01 my 
own. I say ^ saved ’ it, because you know, and I know, 
that before noon to-morrow we will be P^ked up by a 
passing vessel. The payment that l ask for this is, that 
you restore Oni to me unharmed. Do this, Howard, and 
I will forgive all the past, and for your one act of loyalty, 
wipe out 111 your wrong-doing from my remembrance. 

He leans forward and looks into my face. His eyes 
are gleaming like coals of fire, his breath comes short 

^''“No'^doubt you expect me to go down on my knees 
and thank you for your generosity,” he 
“ but you will find how mistaken you are. By the woids 
you used to me that night in your prison cell, yoH 
out any debt I may hay® owed you, saye one of hatred. 


108 


ONI. 


I told you then that it was war between us, and I rejoeat 
it now. Any injury that I can do you, I wdll, and if I 
can ever bring you to the gallows for a crime which I 
have committed, it shall be done! 

“ Do you think I. will ever allow your expressed con- 
tempt for me to go unpunished? If so, you have yet to 
learn my nature. I had rather have died to-night than 
owe my life to you, but that is only one more offense in 
the scale against you. I am a coward, a thief, a liar and 
a murderer, I think you said. I will endeavor to deserve 
your words, even more than at present. 

will prove myself a coward by accepting my life at 
your hands to-night, for you are too honorable — with 
stinging sarcasm — to kill me now, as you might easily 
do. I will prove myself a thief by stealing from yon 
that good name for honest integrity, which you value so 
highly. I will prove myself a liar by making you ap- 
pear as false^as hell itself to the girl you love better than 
your life'’^ — with bitter irony— and lastly I will prove 
myself a murderer by killing all that is good in you and 
casting you upon the world a wreck. I will do worse 
than cut your throat or put a bullet through your brain, 
I will destroy your soul! 

These are no idle boasts, I will keep my word as 
surely as there is a God above us. I hate you because of 
your contempt and because you know me fpr exactly 
what I am.'*’ 

When he has ceased speaking, I laugh mockingly. 

Forewarned is forearmed, you know,^'’ I say disdain- 
fully. I accept your despicable warfare, so long as it 
only injures me, but if it recoils on your own head, re- 
member you alone are to blame. But you shall not 
make a tool of a woman, that I swear. 

''You want ta know where Oni Gray is?'' asks my 
brother with bitterest hatred in his eyes and voice. " I 
answer, find out if you can! You want me to return her 
to you unharmed? I answer that I cmmot accomplish the 
impossible.^' 

" What!" I cry, leaping to my feet again; "you dare 
to tell me that." 

He sees how terribly excited I am, and he too rises to 
his feet. 

In au instant my hands are upon his throat. 


ONI. 


109 


I force him to his knees. 

His face is growing black, his eyes protrude from their 
sockets. He tries to free himself from my grasp, but he ' 
might as well undertake to shake off a madman. 

‘‘Dog, scoundrel, and she your own sister; die, as only 
brutes like you should die!'’’ 

At that moment a great wave comes toward us, our 
little boat gives a tremendous lurch, and we are both 
pitched headlong into the sea. 


OHAPTER XXII. 


Eortunately I do not lose my presence of mind. 

After that great wave passes, the sea seems to grow 
much calmer, but it sweeps the boat some distance from 
me* 

I release my hold upon Howard’s throat,4)ut he seems, 
from his shock and re'cent illness, to be utterly unable to 
help himself. 

A terrible temptation comes over me for a second— the 
temptation to leave him to his so well-deserved fate 
but that God who has kept me from becoming a murderer, 
o-ives me strength to overcome it, and I determine that 
?f either of us ever reaches thut boat, both shall. 

I catch him by the collar as I see him about to sink 

from exhaustion. n . . 

“ Take hold of the back of my coat,” I say, and help 
yourself as much as you can. If you attempt to injure 
me in any way you will only take your own life, for you 
could never reach that boat without me. 

“ Before I have ceased speaking, he recovers himselt 
enough to clutch me tightly between the shoulders, and I 
begin my swim for the boat. 

It is a terrible task, burdered with my clothes and How- 
ard, and unaccustomed as I am to such a heavy sea, but 


I am making some progress. i t i 

“ It is useless. Jack,” says Howard, when I have al- 
most reached the boat. I cannot even hold to you any 

longer; my strength is all gone.” _ f 

‘‘I am almost there,” I say, cheeringly. “Hold fast 
two minutes more, and it will be done.” 
i redouble my efforts, but after only a second s silence^ 


ilO 


ONI. 


my brother speaks again, but this time his voice is much 
fainter. 

I can^t do it,^^ he says, and at the same time loosens 
his hold. 

I put out my hand and grab him, make a desperate ef- 
fort and reach the boat. 

I scramble over into it, and pull Howard after me. 

He is in a dead faint. 

I wrap his overcoat, which fortunately was left in . the 
boat and is not wet, about him, and make him as com- 
fortable as 1 can, then I go back to my own seat. 

It will do no good to row, as I have no more idea than 
the man in the moon which way to steer to get nearer to 
land, so I sit and think. 

After what seems to me an endless time, Howard opens 
his eyes. ^ 

He looks around him in a slow, puzzled way for a time, 
then at me and smiles. • 

There is no mirth or pleasure in his smile, only 
hatred. 

So you succeeded, he says, sarcastically, After 
trying to take the life of a helpless man, you concluded 
to save it for the second time. Very commendable. I 
congratulate you upon your Christian charity."^ 

Howard,'" I say, very qtiietly, ‘‘since you have been 
lying there, and I have been alone with my conscience 
under God's stars, I have been thinking, and I have come 
to the conclusion that I have been very wrong. You 
sinned, and though I put out my hand to save you, I 
may have done it with the same spirit that the Pharisee 
did, when he thanked God he was not as other neonle 
are. ' ^ ^ 


The sneer on Howard's face angers me terribly, but I 
have determined that I will control my temper. 

“ Why the deuce don't you turn parson. Jack," he 
You would do better at it than law." 

7f V ^ no notice of his speech, but continue: 

must T ^ Judge, neither 

must I call you to account for your sins, and if I can 

hand I am more than willing. 

TiuV,;^ T ® one thing, liowever, which you hare said 
f hich I believe is false, but which, if it 
p oves true, I hope God will forever damn you in this 


ill 


ONI. 

world and tlie next. Oni Gray is not a girl to lightly 
throw away her good name, and I beseech you to tell me 
the truth upon this point, and before you speak, remem- 
ber that it is the. reputation of your sister you assail.^ 

His face grows red and pale by turns. 

What absurd lie is that?’" he asks, insolently. /‘It I 
remember correctly, you were never given to lyiiig; I 
don’t think it was want of courage, but your puling little 
soul was never up to it. You have said that twice, and 
I say it is an infernal lie !” ^ . 

And I swear to you before Almighty God that it is 
the truth!” 

Weak as he is, he rises bolt upright and looks at me. 
Are you out of your senses that you give utterance to 
such words as those? Have you gone mad, or do you 
think I have, that you should expect me to believe such 
an impossibility as that?” 

I am not crazy, neither do I think you are, i say 
firmly. ^"Oni Gray is Veronique Vegas, whose mother 
was the same as yours!” 

Good God!” . . , , ,, 

The expression drops from his lips as though the words 

were molten lead. 

His lower jaw drops, his eyes set, and for a moment i 
think he is going to die. Then he recovers himself 
somewhat, and asks in a discordant voice: 

What is she to you?” 

""Nothing!” x. . i, • 

The color slowly comes back to his face, but he is still 

^ puzzled as he asks: « x i to 

"" How is that? What are you to me? and who am i.'’ 
You seem to be speaking the truth, and yet I cannot 

understand.” „ , 

I tell him the whole story from my meeting with Dol- 
ores up to the present. He does not once interrupt me, 
but sits staring at me, his elbows upon his knees, his chin 

supported by his hands. ^ ^ ^ . ■ . , , 

There is a wild, haggard look in his eyes and when he 
speaks, his voice has an unoarthly sound which startles 

And that poor, mad woman is my mother!” he says. 
"" And she whom I tried to wrong was my sister!' 

""Tried!” I repeat, after a time. ""You mean that you 


113 


ONI. 


did not succeed? You mean that Oni Gray is as pure in 
mind and body as when she left us? You mean tliat 
what you said was not the truth ?’^ 

What I said was false he answers in the same 
dreary way. Thank God I was saved from sinking so 
low as that.^’ 

He covers his face with his hands, and for the first 
time I believe Howard is really touched. 

My heart gives a great bound of gratitude at his words, 
but I remain quiet for fear of disturbing that penitential 
mood which is upon him. 

'‘Where is Oni, Howard?” I ask, gently. “Your mo- 
ther's recovery depends upon her, and her alone.” 

He shakes his head sadly, but does not lift it from his 
hands. 

“ I don’t know,” he answers in a stifled voice. “ She 
may be living, she may be dead. I have been able to find 
no trace of her since the night of the Milwaukee fire.” 

My heart sinks. 

I did not know how much I had reckoned upon finding 
her until now. 

But if he has escaped, why may not she have done so 
as well? 

“How did you make your escape?” I ask when I can 
recover my voice after my disappointment. 

“I have no idea,” he answers, lifting his head and 
leaning it dejectedly upon his hand. “I suppose the 
walls must have fallen or something, but the first thing I 
remember after Oni fainted, was being in a strange room, 
with strange people attending me. I had been pulled out ^ 
from the wreck, I suppose. I had been ill many weeks, 
being badly burned, arid I have never recovered from the 
slow fever which set in. Indeed, this little sea voyage 
was advised by my physicians to see if it would not put 
me on my feet again. I have never found a trace of Oni, 
though I employed the best detective service for weeks. 

I even had them search New York and Virginia to see if 
she had returned to you.” 

He remains silent for some time, looking sadly out 
over the broad expanse of water, the waves rocking our 
boat which slowly drifts with the tide and the low gurg- 
ling slash of the waters seeming to sing a requiem over 
my hopes, born only to die within the hour. 


om. 


m 


Then another horrible thought strikes me. 

^‘Howard,” I say, laying my hand upon his shoulder 
and my words come disconnectedly, ‘^you — you never 
really cared — cared for her, did you? It was only — 
only to annoy me, was it not, that you took her away?” 

He turns his big, dark eyes slowly upon me and an- 
sweis, to my intense relief. 

No, I never loved her, if that is what you mean. 
Tlie one real love of my life was and is given to my 
betrothed wife, Grace Melrose. She believes me dead, 
but I will soon undeceive her now, if I contract no cold 
from my ducking to end my valuable life.” 

I have drawn back from him, shocked beyond words, 
that he should contemplate making any woman, least of 
all one as good and pure as Grace Melrose, the compan- 
ion of his guilt-stained soul. 

^"You will tell her all?” I ask in surprise. ‘^And 
then trust to her love and forgiveness?” 

He looks at me in disgust. 

What are you talking about! Has the moon got into 
your head and turned it? Do you think I am such an 
ass as to believe a woman like Grace Melrose would for- 
give crimes like mine? She might pity me, but marry 
me, never! I am what you have been pleased to call a 
murderer. It is a harsh word, but perhaps a just one. 
A woman never pardons that, unless the act is positively 
no crime, and the man who has taken life is guiltless.” 

You do not mean to say that you would marry her 
and leave her in ignorance?” I say, scarcely able to 
credit what I have heard. 

^^What are you. Jack?” asks Howard, looking at me, 
with some of the anger returning to his face. A fool, 
a dolt, or an idiot? or do you take me for one?” 

I am more disgusted than ever before in my life. The 
act he contemplates is odious, despicable, and shall not 
be accomplished. 

Such an act would not be that of a man,” I say hotly, 
''but a fiend. You shall not do it.” 

" Who can prevent me?” he asks with a sneer. 

"Your own conscience,” I answer, speaking distinctly 
but rapidly. "But if that is so seared and deadened by 
crime that it cannot speak loud enough, then / toilin 


114 


ONI. 

Yon dare half rising, and looking at me with 

fierce, passionate e3^es. 

» Yes!Tdlre!™'You shall not ruin the life of’another 
pure and innocent woman, you shall not add another 
crime to the blackness of your soul/' 

What will you do?” he asks, 
will tell her all! I will save you from yourselt! 

Tell her, and I swear to you that I will kill you! he 
says in terrible excitement. 

I defy you!” I say in a voice grown cold with anger. 
‘‘ You have declared war upon me, and because of our 
brotlierhood I have listened to you and put your threats 
from me, but now it shall no longer be a case of Cain and 
Abel. Our relationship is a thing of the past, and from 
this night our position is man to man!” 


CHAPTEE XXIII. 

Several months have been comfortably disposed of by 
old father Time since the morning that Howard and I 
were picked up by a steamer bound for New York, and 
landed once more at our starting point. 

I was not sorry to be at home, as I had had quite 
enough of it. 

My father received Howard with open arn>s. His 
demonstrations of Joy were so great, that had I ever in- 
tended such a thing, I could not have had the heart to 
destroy his confidence in the son of his love marriage. 

Dolores, by my advice, is kind to Howard, though I 
can see what an effort the dear girl is making to receive 
a man whose bad character is known t*o her, as her 
brother. 

But what would she not have done had I requested it? 
And I? 

Well, I hardly know about myself. I do not love 
Dolores with that mad passion I have given to her sister, 
but I have for her a quiet, true affection which is possi- 
bly more comfortable to its object, than the reckless, 
jealous, master touch of first love. 

That poor little Oni Gray is dead, none of us doubt. 
I believe the only honest impulse of Howard^’slife governs 
him in that belief. 


ONI, 


115 


His engagement to Grace Melrose has not only been 
re-arranged, but announced. He is determined to carry 
his point, and I equally determined that he shall not 
ruin that true woman^s life. It would be dastardly, 
cowardly, criminal in me to allow it, knowing as I know 
so well that it is only a fancy for a new toy and that 
aside from knowing herself the wife of a murderer, as 
she soon would know, he would only break her heart and 
leave her to die. 

We are all at the theater to-night. 

Dolores takes too morbid a view of life. She frets 
over the inevitable and clings to her troubles. 

To take her mind from herself, I have brought her to 
see a young comedienne, over whom all New York is rav- 
ing, coming to us as she does, fresh from the stamp of 
London’s approval and high encomiums. 

Her beauty, her style, her methods have caught the 
town, and little Patrice,’’ as she is called, reigns queen 
of the comedy boards. 

We have the lower, right-hand box, and Howard leans 
in an impressive manner, over the back of Miss Melrose’s 
chair, in the one directly opposite. 

The house is exquisite! Filled as it is from pit to 
dome with the fashionable element of our great and 
wealthy city, it is fit to do homage to every ounce of 
royalty the world can produce. 

^^Did you ever see such an array of beauty?” questions 
Dolores, clasping her hands in delight and looking over 
the assemblage through her lorgnette. '^Just think! 
It is hardly eight o’clock and every seat and all the stand- 
ing room taken. If Patrice is human she sliould be satisfied 
with the reception she has received in New York.” 

^^Butsheis not of course,” I say, skeptically. ^^If 
she is not afflicted with what actors call ^swelled head,’ 
she may be grateful, but not satisfied. There never was 
a satisfied person in the histrionic profession. If they 
possess talent they are not satisfied with a reputation of 
mushroom growth, they are not contented with the adula- 
tion of the hour; their desire is to stand at the head in 
their own line, and they struggle and battle bravely for 
the position. Once there, their desire is to keep foremost 
in the ranks, and their lives are one long siege of toil 


116 


ONI. 


and care and study. But they lore it, even the very 

How do you know so much about them?^^ asks Dol- 
ores, looking at me innocently. 

I cannot prevent a warm color suffusing my face. 

I answer, laughing lightly, have served my 
apprenticeship at worshiping actresses, with all the rest 
of the fellows.'^ 

^‘1 never could imagine you. Jack, very devoted to a 
woman,^" says my affianced wife, looking slightly puzzled. 

I laugh heartily. 

^‘The boys used to tell me,'" I say, ''that I would com- 
mit suicide unless attached to a lady's chatelaine." 

She turns away from me with a half sigh, ajid I know 
only too well that . she is chafing over my lack of ab- 
sorbed devotion to her. 

Just then the orchestra comes from their mysterious 
places under the stage, and arrange themselves for the 


overture. 

The hum in the house does not cease, but keeps up its 
impolite buzz all through an overture, which I, as a mu- 
sician, would like to enjoy in uninterrupted silence. 

Then the curtain rises, and every one is expectantly 
silent. 

Wonderful to say, even the first lines^ of the play are 
distinctly heard, and then the stage, set as a morning- 
room, is deserted. 

A masked hall is supposed to he in progress somewhere 
in the house, I believe, and, after a pause of a few sec- 
onds, a little face, from the 0. P. side, is stuck cautiously 
through the door. 

It is covered by a silk mask, but even the mask is so 
dainty that the audience begin a rapturous applause. 

Then Patrice comes upon the stage. 

She is dressed in a short, simple costume of white 
muslin, made in some inconceivable way, and looped 
here and there with tiny sprays of forget-me-nots. A 
large bunch of the same flower is at her waist, and an- 
other in the low-cut childish corsage. 

Her round, beautiful arms are bare and she looks ex- 
actly what she is endeavoring to represent, a child who 
has eluded her guardians and run away to the ball. 

•The audience cheer and shout and she receives their . 


ONI. 


Ill 


marks of approbation in a sweet, retiring, girlish man- 
ner that enhances her charms ten-fold. 

When she can begin her work after the rapturous re- 
ception is over, she steals across the stage, and finding the 
field quite clear and herself absolutely alone, she throws 
herself with graceful abandon upon a sofa, and br^ks 
into a peal of merry, ringing laughter. 

My heart stands still and my face grows as pale as 
death. 

It is an exact reproduction of that other laugh, the 
only one I have ever heard. It brings so forcibly to my 
mind the rippling,- gladsome brook and the mound of 
woodland violets, that the sweet remembrance makes me 
faint. 

I catch at the back of the chair upon which Dolores 
sits, and behind which I am standing, and with strained, 
anxious eyes, gaze at the little creature before me. 

I have outwitted them,^^ she says at last. 

I start forward with such impetuosity that Dolores 
turns to me in surprise. 

What is it?’^ she questions, slipping her hand into 
mine, regardless of the audience. 

But at that moment Patrice throws off her mask. 

I forget all about Dx)lores, I forget the whole world, 
and remember only that the girls name who stands beiore 
me is not Patrice. 

Oh, my darling, my lost love,^^ I murmur, ‘‘found, 
ound at last!” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Ilf order to have you, my friends, understand Oni 
Gray's position better, I shall have to go back to the time 
of the Milwaukee fire, and tell you the story as I have 
heard it since, not quite as connectedly as I shall try to 
give it to you, but in bits at a time. 

With the falling of those walls Oni Gray's remem 
brance ceases for a time, and she, no more than Howard, 
knows aught of her rescue. 

For blocks around almost every house was turned either 
into a temporary hospital or morgue. 

Oni was taken to the house of a lady of great wealth, 
jind greater kindness of heart, who received the beauti- 


ONL 


118 

ful child with warmth and affection, and before Oni had 
recovered sufficiently from her shock and slight injuries 
to tell who she was, the good woman had learned to love 

her almost as her own child. ^ 

It was many days before Oni re.turned to full conscious- 
ness, and then the fear of Howard being apprehended by 
the police and taken back to Virginia to stand a trial for 
perjury, kept her in terror and mortal agony. 

But her strong young constitution proved too much for 
illness or fear, and she rapidly pulled through. 

As she was lying upon her bed one day, wondering 
what would become of her when she w^s once restored to 
health and compelled to leave the asylum which now 
sheltered her, her kind friend, Mrs. Oakland, came to 
her, and sitting down beside the bed took the little suf- 
ferer’s hands in both her own. 

'^My dear,'' she said, gently, '"you are getting well 
rapidly now, so rapidly that I am afraid I shall have to 
]j^art with you soon and return you to your friends. The 
subject has always seemed so painful to you that I have 
never dwelt upon it, but you are strong enough now to 
think of them, and what they must be suffering in believ- 
ing you dead." 

The poor child placed her bands over her face., and 
great tears fell like rain. 

" I have no friends," she says at last, " and no home. 
There is no one to be sorry I am dead, no one on earth 
who cares." 

" Don't say that, dear child," says Mrs. Oakland in a 
pained voice, her own tears starting from sympathy. 
"So pretty a child as you are cannot be all alone in the 
world." 

"But I am alone — so cruelly alone!" says Oni, uncov- 
ering her face and looking with great startled eyes at the 
lady beside her. "I have no mother, no father, and only 
one friend on earth, who is powerless to help me if he 
would." 

" What is your name.'^" asks Mrs. Oakland, kindly. 

Visions of police, courts of justice and Howard rise be- 
fore the poor child's overtaxed, excited brain, and with a 
faltering voice she murmurs: 

"Patrice Leighton," 


ONI. 


119 


It is the first name which comes into her mind, and 
the words startle her as they fall from her cold, stiff lips. 

What a pretty name,^^ says Mrs. Oakland, tenderly. 

There, dear child, donT look so frightened, you poor 
little helpless creature. Do you think I am hard-hearted 
enough to turn a little thing like you into the streets? I 
should expect the same fate to overtake my own litye 
ones if I did. We are going to Europe in a little while, 
and if you donT mind crossing the great, big ocean, you 
shall be my little girl and come with me always. Will 
you 

What! will you let me?^’ cries Oni, springing up and 
throwing her arms around the neck of her benefactress. 

Oh, my friend! my dear, kind friend! how shall I ever 
thank you?” 

^^By saying no more about it,” says Mrs. Oakland; 

but you may prove your gratitude by being a good and 
dutiful daugliter to me. I am impulsive, and what wise 
people call foolish, but I do not believe I am mistaken in 
you, and I love you already.” 

She kisses her new daughter fondly, and lays her back 
upon her pillows again, and little Oni G-ray has found a 
home at last. 

The devotion of Mrs. Oakland to her handsome hus- 
band was something which the world called beautiful. 

She had been a pleasant-looking, sweet-tempered girl 
of enormous wealth, and her father, a level-headed busi- 
ness man, had sufficient forethought to have matters ar- 
ranged so. that her marriage did not make her lose control 
of her own vast fortune. 

Thus it was that handsome, indolent Cuthbert Oak- 
land retained his wife^s affection, because there was a 
strong reason for his keeping any of his little peccadilloes 
from reaching her ears. 

She believed him to be perfection, and she loved him 
with almost mad idolatry, and he kissed her occasionally, 
called her his own dear little wifey,” and allowed her 
to believe herself the apple of his eye. 

There were tvo children of no great personal beauty, 
whom the motlier loved next to her husband, and he was 
somewhat indifferent to their very existence. 

These little ones had their own governess, who also 
gave lessons to the adopted daughter of the house, Miss 


ONL 


m 

Patrice Leighton, and it was in this latter pupil that the 
governess, a clever, talented woman, devoted most of hei 
time, finding in her an agreeable companion as well as an 
apt and studious pupil. 

So it was that for some months after their arrival in 
London little Oni Gray lived with these kind friends, 
under her false name, and was happy. 

Her conscience did not trouble her upon the score of 
her name, because, she said, it was as much her own as 
that other name, to which she had no more right. 

She loved Mrs. Oakland, she respected and liked Mr. 
Oakland, and she was serenely, perfectly happy, but for 
the remembrauce of a few of those old days in Virginia, 
whose memory would come back and disturb her peace- 
fulness. 

But all this was too bright to last. 

Little Patrice Leighton was born under no such lucky 
star. 

She is to-day half-sitting, half-lying upon a gorgeous 
satin couch, almost hidden by her turquoise pillows, en- 
joying one of the latest novels, when the delightful fra- 
grance of a choice cigar is wafted to her. 

Mrs. Oakland is out with the governess and children, 
Oiii having preferred to remain at home with her book. 

She does not turn her head from the book as the odor 
of the cigar reaches her, and it is only when Mr. Oakland 
enters and throws himself carelessly into a great easy- 
chair that she does raise her eyes. 

You know how your wife will scold if you smoke in 
here,^’ she says, half laughing. 

I think it would be a relief if she did scold some- 
times,’^ he says, pettishly. “Do you object to it?” 

“ Indeed no. I like it. But you really ought not to 
smoke here, you know.” 

“ Then put down that odious book and come with me 
to the Jibrary, and I will smoke there.” 

“ Can’t you do it without me?” she asks, stifling a yawn 
behind her hand. 

“ISTo, I can’t, you know” — with an English affectation. 
“ How disgustingly like these English snobs you are grow- 
ing, Patrice.” 

“Don’t you like it?” she questions, sweetly. “ I won- 
der why you live here, then. You know madame, your 


ONI. 121 

wife, would not remain an instant if she knew it did not 
please her liege lord/^ 

^‘^Bah!'^ he says, puffing at his cigar savagely. I 
wish to Heaven she were not so subservient to my every 
wish! If she would disagree with me sometimes, or be 
impertinent to me, snub me, or thwart me, there might 
be a little more spice in life, or a little more pleasure in 
living. I am sick of it all. Sometimes I go to the club 
with the intention of coming home drunk, to see if that 
will arouse her, but I get disgusted with myself before I 
can accomplish my pur pose. 

Oni laughs heartily, merrily. 

It is funny, no doubt, to you,’^ he says, blinking 
hard at her, but it is infernally trying to me.'’^ 

You are the most ungrateful man on earth, Mr. 
Cuthbert Oakland, says Oni, when she can control her 
miiih, ‘^and if I were your wife I would teach you a 
lesson which you would not soon forget.^’ 

‘‘ I wish to God you werel^Hie says, fervently, pitching 
his cigar into the fire. 

Oni is sobered at once. 

Cuthbert Oakland has always been more like an elder 
brother to her than anything else, and she is both sur- 
prised and displeased at his remark. 

She opens her eyes very wide and stares at him, but 
says nothing.' 

Don^t look at me like that,^^ he says, his face flush- 
ing hotly. Do you think I am coward enough to harm 
a little, innocent thing like you? I donH think I could 
ever look my own child in the face again if I did. 

AVlien I was a young man I was poor, very poor, and 
I was tempted into marrying a woman for her money. 
She is good, and she loves me, and I think that goodness 
and that love have been my curse. If she were not good, 
I should not feel myself such a hypocrite. If she did not 
love me, I should not feel myself such a scoundrel. 

Oh, Patrice! little one, you don't know what it is, 
and I pray God you may never know, to be tied for all 
your life to one person, and have another just by for 
whom you would gladly die. To owe all your loyalty 
and devotion to one person, while your heart and soul are 
filled with the image of another. The fate of my own 
creating was not so hard to bear until I met you. Oh, 


13S 


ONI. 


Patrice, my darling, why did you ever come into my life 
to show me my own heart and the selfishness of my fool- 
ish sin?^^ . 

He walks rapidly up and down the room seeming to 
speak more to himself than to her. 

And she? . . , ^ 

She looks at him for a moment in agitated, pained 
surprise, then breaks into bitter, passionate tears. 

Instantly he is on his knees at her side, his arms around 
her waist. ' 

Don’t do that, darling,’’ he pleads, brokenly. You 
will break my heart. I never -meant to say this to you, 
and I Avas a mad fool to do it; but, oh, Patrice! you don’t 
know how hard I have tried to control myself. Don t 
despise me for my moment of weakness, little love, but 
forgive and pity me.” 

She raises her head and tries to smile at him, but the 
attempt is more pitiful than her tears. 

Forgiveness is not for me. There is nothing for me 
to forgive. I do pity you from my soul, but I pity my- 
self much more.” 

What!” he cries, his handsome face fiushing crim- 
son. You mean ” 

I mean,” she says, interrupting him, ^^^that I never 
knew what happiness meant until I came into your fam- 
ily to live. I have been so happy, so happy here”-— 
stretching out her arms as if to embrace all the loveli- 
ness with Avhicli she is surrounded — and now it is all 
over, all over!” 

She bows her head upon her hands and sobs in a 
dreary, heart-broken manner. 

What do you mean?” he cries, frightened more by 
her manner than her words. Oh, my dearest, you 
Avould not leave us, you would not take the only little 
ray of sunshine out of my miserable life? You could 
not be so cruel!” 

‘‘ Do you think I could remain here and eat her bread, 
knowing what I know? Do you think I could accept 
her favors and her love, knowing I had robbed her of her 
husband’s heart? I am not so bad as that.” 

You would leave us!” he cries, staggering to his feet, 
‘^and go alone and unprotected into this great world? 
You would go forth, because of me, homeless, friendless, 


ONl. 


130 


and a wanderer? No, Patrice, I am' not so bad as that. 
If either of ns leave this house, it must be T. AVhat 
blame is there to attach to you? What could you do in 
this big, cruel city, but beat your wings against the iron 
bars until you dropped dead from exhaustion? Oh, 
Patrice, my little one, do you despise me so that you 
cannot trust me once again?” 

She looks at him with great, sorrowful eyes, from which 
all tears have fied, their misery is too great for that. 

No, I do not despise you,” she says, slowly; your 
love is not the kind that degrades a woman in her own 
esteem, but I am so unutterably sorry. Oh, believe me, 
my friend, it is not all selfishness.” 

She puts out her two little quivering hands to him. 
He bends over them and kisses them as tenderly and re- 
spectfully as though she were a princess. 

know, dear; you are too generous, too noble for that, 
but child, child, if you could only tell me once that my 
love is returned, I believe I could live upon silence the 
balance of my life. My heart is so hungry, my days are 
so dreary! Speak to me, my darling, if only to let me 
hear the sound of your loved voice.” 

She lays her hand lightly «pon his bowed head. 

Now you are committing sin, my poor friend,” she 
says brokenly; "^your confession may have been wrung 
from your heart, almost without your knowledge, but you 
speak as sane men speak now. You are quiet, you are 
yourself.” 

What sin would I not commit to hear you once say 
^ Outhbert, I love you,^ even to the selling of my own 
soul,” he says passionately. 

But I could not say it,” she says, pushing him^pntly 
-from her, '' for I have no love to give to any man.” 

But if we had met earlier, if I were free to ask you 
to become my wife,” he says unsteadily, ''tell me, what 
would your answer be?” 

She looks at him for a moment in silence, pitying the 
great, strong man who stands so pleadingly before her, 
and answers softly: 

‘"I do not know.” . 

He takes it in the way he himself wishes and uttering 
a deep groan, he drops into a chair and covers his pale 
face with his hands. 


124 


ONL 


She clasps her hands in mute anguish, as she sees how 
completely his love has unmanned him. 

Stirred by an impulse which she cannot control, she 
rises to her feet, and leaning forward, kisses him lightly 
upon the forehead. 

Almost maddened by the rush of guilty happiness, he 
throws out his arms to clasp her to him, but she steps 
back beyond his reach. 

Don’t do that, Outhbert,’^ she says, calling him by- 
his name for the first time. Don’t make me construe 
a simple act of pity of my own into a sin. Let me have 
onlyn- hallowed remembrance of our first and last conver- 
sation upon this subject. Let me carry in my memory an 
honorable man, whose love was purity.” 

“Forgive me,” he says, in a slow, heart-broken way, 
“ you, who know how I suffer. You are going from me ”— 
as he sees her about to leave the room — “and though we 
live under the same roof, we must be parted forever. Oh, 
love, as you value the happiness of a life, as you pity the 
misery of a dead heart, say good-bye to me.” 

He rises unsteadily, and holds out his arms to her. 

Not in weakness, not in sinfulness, but in divine pity 
she goes to him and allows Itim to take her into his arms 
for one moment, and even to kiss her lips; then he re- 
leases her, and she staggers blindly, hopelessly from the 
room. 

Instinctively she seeks her own apartment, that beauti- 
ful room all gorgeously decked out in pink and white, 
and as she stands in its center, her hands clasp in mute 
anguish. 

“ Once more friendless and alone,” she says, in a slow, 
hoarse monotone. 

Her limbs almost fail to support her, and her eyes ache 
and burn, but no tears come to her relief. 

She puts together a few necessary articles, then takes 
out her purse and counts her money, the gift of the 
woman, whom she will not betray. There is only a little, 
but it will be sufficient for her small wants, she thinks, 
until she can obtain work. 

Then she sits down at her pretty little inlaid desk to 
write. 

Its very beauty smites her to the heart. 


ONI. 


m 


She takes her paper from it, and selecting a book from 
her table, writes upon that instead. 

My Friend and my Benefactress, — It hurts me 
that I must leave you with the belief that I am ungrate- 
ful, as is usually the case where kindness is shown an 
outcast! But so it must be. I can make no explanation; 
I can leave no word of regret. 

^^To say that I tliank you, and that I love you, would 
be but to add insult to injury, for your generosity and 
loving, tender solicitude have been beyond all words. 

^^If you would add to that kindness, do not attempt 
to find me. I am not worthy of your regard. 

^‘Patrice.” 

In the gloaming of that wretched day, Oni Gray goes 
forth again a wanderer upon the face of the earth. 


CHAPTEE XXV. 

Alone and friendless in the streets of London! Only 
God knows the awful desolation of those Avords. 

Fortunately Oni has been long enough in the great city 
to learn something of its streets, or Heaven knoAvs what 
would have been the result of her self-imposed fiight from 
her only friends. 

She finds a little, almost bare, room in a house presided 
over by a grim, hard-fisted woman, and the next day she 
bravely begins her battle with life. 

That is at best a weary struggle, and for even the 
toughest, most weather-beaten old general it sometimes 
ends in despair, madness, or death. Then, what can a 
frail child expect, particularly one gifted with the fatal 
dower of beauty? 

Hopefully at first, with little head erect and heart 
throbbing with independence, she begins her tramp after 
that which she cannot find. 

What can she do? 

Alas, so little! 

And then that fatal beauty! 

In busy London people forget that there is starvation 
in the land. 

At first bravely,, then Avearily, then despairingly, she 
seeks for work, but people look at her delicate hands, 
they notice her high-bred bearing amd her lovely face. 


ONI. 


136 

Their inquiring changes to doubt, and they turn her 
away from their virtuous doors, fearful of Ci^Htamina- 

tion. . . . , 

If virtue were only as contagious as vice is believed to 

be! 

Her little store of money is exhausted, she has visited 
the pawn-shop as often as her few articles of clothing will 
allow, and to-night she sits penniless, almost freezing and 
starving, knowing that to-morrow she will be turned into 
the street to die, or worse. 

She has had absolutely nothing to eat for nearly two 
days and almost nothing for many days before. 

The pangs of hunger are maddening. 

She has tried all ; there is only one thing left, only one 
course open to her now — suicide! 

The sweet simplicity of her child-like nature recoils 
from so horrible an alternative, but she can bear it no 
longer. 

Oh, I am afraid, afraid,^^ she sobs pitifully. am 
so cold, oh God, so cold! But that will be more cold, 
more desolate, more forsaken. Forgotten by God, as well 
as by the world. No, no! He is not so unjust. He 
knows my temptation. He knows my bitter suffering. 
He will forgive.^- 

With trembling fingers she fastens her casement tightly, 
turns on the gas and lies down upon her bed to wait for 
death. 

As the sickening fumes of the gas reach her, the awful 
act she is so rapidly accomplishing, strikes her with 
greater force than ever. 

So lonely, so frightfully, frightfully cold,^’ she moans, 
then starting up with a wild shriek, she says: Oh God, 

I cannot, I cannot!” 

Hatless, and with her raven hair streaming around her 
pale, lovely face, she throws open her door, dashes down' 
the stairs and out into the night. 

People are going home from the theater. 

They see her, shiver, and draw their waps more closely 
about them, and pass on. 

She staggers up against a post and stands there, the 
night air playing with her flowing hair, which lashes her 
face like a whip. 

Coming toward her she sees dimly, as in a dream, a 


ONI. 


121 


man alone with a handsome though inane face, and, as 
he is opposite her, with an impulse which she cannot con- 
trol, she puts out her hand and says, with a great, tear- 
less sob: 

Sir, I beg of you, in the name of Heaven, for charityo” 

The streets are almost deserted now, and he is her last 
hope. 

He stops short and looks at her in surprise. 

What is it you ask, little girl?^^ he says. 

Alms,” she answers, in a hollow voice. 

He gives a long, low whistle, and says, insolently. 

What need has a pretty thing like you to beg?’" 

""I am hungry and cold, sir,” she answers, humbly, 

and I can find no work in this great, pitiless city.” 

He laughs shortly. 

There are easier ways for a girl like you to make her 
living than by work or b'Cgging. Come home with me, 
and you shall want for nothing.” 

She sees his meaning by the evil light in his heavy 
eyes’. 

Coward!” she gasps, clinching her little fists. 

He laughs heartily. 

That is great!” he says, brutally. "" Come, you shall 
buy my money, or rather I will buy a kiss of you, my 
beauty. That is fair, is it not?” 

She attempts to run, but he throws his arm around 
her and holds her fast. 

She utters a faint scream. 

At that instant there is a rush of feet, a powerful hand 
thrown out, and the next moment the cowardly English- 
man is felled, with no light blow, to the street. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

Pantikg with excitement, and scarcely able to stand 
from weakness and hunger, Oni would have fallen but 
for the strong arm thrown prctectingly around her. 

Who are you, child? Where do you live? Let me 
take you to your friends,” says her warm-hearted deliv- 
erer, taking no notice of the man he has knocked down, 
but allowing him to slink away in silence. ^ 

‘‘ I am alone, friendless and starving,”’ answers Oni, in 
a hollow whisper. 


128 


ONI. 


^'The deuce you are/’ he says in astonishment. 
‘^Well, I guess you won’t quite starve while Bob Clifton 
has got a farthing in his breeches pockets. AVhat have 
you done with vour friends?” , 

I_I never had any/’ answers Cm, hanging her head 
as she remembers. 

And your parents?” 

I don’t know that I ever had any parents either, she 
answers, with a little hysterical sob. 

‘‘You poor little Topsy! Well, you didn’t ‘grow’d’ 
very high, did vou? But here I am indulging my curi- 
osity, and you are half-starved. Can you walk, or shall 
I carry you? It is quite near.” 

“ I can walk, thank you,” answers Oni. 

Half carrying, half leading her. Bob Clifton hurries 
along to his own comfortable boarding-house, lets him- 
self in with a latch-key, and throwing open the door of 
the dining-room, says cheerily: 

“ Hello, Fat! I’ve brought a little ‘ kid ’ to you that 
is going to be our joint charge, hlow bottle up your curi- 
osity until she has had something to eat, for she’s hun- 
grier than that proverbial old wolf that never had 
enough to eat in his life. Here, little one, is a capital 
lunch. Now fall to, and let’s see who can get away with 
the most in the shortest space of time.” 

Oni looks around her in amazement. 

The room is beautifully furnished, but with an eye to 
comfort rather than style or show, and there are such odd 
things all about— things which she has never seen before 
and knows nothing of. 

The lady addressed as “ Fat ” is certainly rather fat, 
but with such a pretty face and big-hearted look that one 
naturally trusts and loves her. 

There is also an air of easy, respectful familiarity in 
the atmosphere, which puzzles while it pleases Oni. 

“ Bob Clifton, have you been making a fool of yourself 
again?” asks Fat, sharply, but looking at him so 
kindly that there is no sting in her words. 

“Mayhap,” answers that gentleman, serenely. “By 
Jove, little girl, I suppose you’ve got a name. If you’ll 
tell me what it is I’ll introduce you to the mater famil- 
ias.” 

“ My name is Patrice Leighton,” says Oni, faintly. 


ONI. 


129 


There;, she shanT be bothered any more. Here, 
Topsy, have some cold chicken, and this salad you will 
find excellent. Fat, give that ^ kid a cup of coffee. 
I think a bottle of ^ Bass will catch me.^'’ 

For all the strangeness of her position Oni eats heartily, 
almost ravenously. 

'"Look here, youngster, says Bob Clifton, kindly, 
" how long has it been since you had any food?^^ 

" Two days,’^ answers Oni, laconically. 

" Great Scott says Bob Clifton, with consternation 
and a suspicion of tears in his strong, hearty voice. 
"Well, let me give you a little piece of friendly advice. 
When those idiots that went up to the North Pole were 
found, nearly dead from indulging their curiosity, they 
were made to live on liquid and a lot of other rot for a 
number of days, and I think yoiFd better stop awhile or 
your stomach may turn up a bad investment. 

Oni pushes back her plate and looks at him with a 
bright smile. " 

She is much strengthened and can scarcely credit her 
own good fortune. 

"Well, it seems so far to be about the most agreeable 
investment I have made in a long time,” she says, with 
something of her old spirit. 

"Well, if you have quite finished. Miss Patrice Leigh- 
ton, I think I will introduce you to Mrs. Elizabeth Harri- 
son, who kindly allows me and my family to board with 
her. My family consists of two dogs, three cats, a parrot, 
two canary birds and yourself.” 

Mrs. Harrison kisses Oni kindly and says laughing: 

"Bob is an idiot, my child, but he is the best hearted 
one on earth.” 

Oni looks at the big, handsome fellow and thinks 
what a good thing there are some such " idiots ” in the 
world. 

"I say. Fat, what a hit she”- with a little jerk of 
his head in OnPs direction — "would make with old 
Dean. Hasn't she got a stunning face and form for a 
soubrette?” 

"I don't know,” returns Mrs. Harrison, eying Oni 
with critical kindness. " She seems to have too much 
intensity in her face for a soubrette.” 


130 


ONI. 


^^Were you ever at the theater, little woman asks 
Clifton of Oni. 

Yes, sir,^" she answers, sedately. 

Do you think you would like to act?” 

Oh, I couldn^t, you know,” she says, half frightened. 

I don^t know enough.” 

^^Your skull is not so thick but what you might be 
taught, is it?” he asks, playfully mimicking her manner. 

Oni laughs outright, that clear, ringing, exquisite 

Mrs. Harrison and Bob Clifton look at each other. 

You are not such a fool after all. Bob,” she says, 
shortly. 

A-ha! Trust me!” he says, pompously. 

‘‘Miss Patrice Leighton, I am going to take you to 
the theater with me as soon as this lady can rig you out, 
and I mean to make an actress of you. I shall expect 
you to do great credit to your paternal instructor, and 
become a ‘fakir" of high rank. You will be expected to 
sav that you have known me all your life, and call me 
father.” 

“ That would be too absurd, when you caiPt be more 
than thirty years old,"" says Oni, in laughing remon- 
strance 

“ So it would. Well, ‘ Bob " will do quite as well.” 

“But I should forget the words,” objects Oni. 

“ Then I should cast you into outer darkness forever,"" 
he says, laughing at her fears. “Miss Leighton, your 
fate is sealed. You are a doomed commodity. I shall 
have you billed simply as ‘ Patrice," and, by jingo, the 
world shall recognize your beauty whether you have any 
talent to back it up or not!"" 

“ Bob Clifton, I am ashamed of you!” says Mrs. Har- 
rison, reprovingly. “"If you have no more respect for 
your profession than that, I have for mine, and I say 
that it sha"nT be done! You Say this child is half mine. 
All right! If she has talent, which I think she has, why, 
I give my consent, but if not, she shall remain at home 
and look after the house. Our ranks are. already over- 
crowded with these professional beauties, who set them- 
selves up to be looked at, and who can act no more than 
so many dummies. Don"t you, an actor, talk of degrad- 
ing us, by putting another such among us!” 


ONI. 


131 


don^t get excited, old girl/^ says Clifton, pat- 
ting her respectfully on the back. ^‘Your heart is in 
the right place, but a little overcrowded by jealousy” — 
winking slyly at Oni. '^JSTever mind; that tot has got 
the ginger in her, and don^t you forget it! and if I am 
mistaken, you can put down Bob Clifton on the ^old 
man ^ list before his time.” 

^^Well, it strikes me that you are a trifle premature, 
anyway. How do you know that the child will take 
kindly to the life?” 

^^Take to it!” he returns, contemptuously, ^^why, she 
will take to it like a duck takes to water. Fat, you are 
usually pretty level-headed, but you are ^ off 5 ^our base ’ 
this time. You take care of that M-fid^s ^ togs, and I’ll 
look out for the rest. Can you recite anything, Pat- 
rice?” 

Ho, sir.” 

Never learned any little poems when you were at 
school ?” 

never was at school.” 

'^The d 1! Can’t you read?” 

^^Oh, yes, sir,” she answers, laughing. 

Where did you learn?” 

The woman I lived with and who took care of me 
taught me, when I was a little thing.” 

Yes,” he says, smiling pleasantly, ^^you are such a 
^ tremendous thing ’ now, that you ought to look back 
upon time as ages removed. Can you tell me what is the 
sum total of your education?” 

^^1 can read and write and spell and do some sums in 
arithmetic up to algebra, and I know a little Spanish and 
a little music, and something of etymology and rhetoric, 
and natural, ancient, and modern history, and^ ” 

^^Hold on!” interrupts Bob Clifton, ^^what was that 
woman to you that she should take the trouble to teach 
you all that?” 

She did not teach me all,” answers Oni. 

^MYhodid?” 

— a governess.” 

Her evident hesitation in answering his question puz- 
zles him. 

'"Look here, kitten,” he sa 3 ^s, kindly, ^‘^you don’t 
know us, but we mean you no harm, only good; and you 


ONI, 


183 


must not be afraid of us. If there is anything you 
don’t want to tell us, don’t do it, but I hate secrets, 

worse than I hate old Nick.'’ i - i t i i/j 

There is nothing in my life of which I should be 
asUmed to tell you, sir, but there are some affairs which 
concern others of which it would not be honorable for 
me to speak,” she answers, looking him squarely and 
firmly in the eye. "MVhen I told you that I had no 
home, no friends, and was starving, sir, I told you the 
truth. I hope you believe me, for you have been kind 
to me and I like you.” 

Believe you? Of course I do,” says Clifton, briskly. 

I shall not bother you with any more questions. Do 
you want to go on the stage or not?” 

If you think I can succeed, yes, sir,” answers Oni, 


earnestly. 

That settles it. Eat, you " fake ’ up a decent rig 
for her to-morrow, and I’ll take her to see Dean.” 

Are you going to put that child in parts at once?” 
asks Mrs. Harrison, in some disgust. 

‘^You bet! and the biggest ones I can get,” he says, 
stoutly. 


Yes, and she’ll get stage fright, and you’ll be well 
laughed at about yom protegee.” 

"" Excuse me. Eat, you know I am not given to ego- 
tism every day,” says he, apologetically, but I think 
Bob Clifton is solid enough in the profession to stand a 
little chaff if he falls against it, and come out unhurt; 
but that ^ kid ’ is going to make a hit, or I am a bad 
prophet.” 

Well, you’d better go to bed, study over your lines, 
and get up in your part before you see Dean, or he will 
think you have simply gone daft over a pretty face. It’s 
my opinion you’ll make a mess of it.” 

Fat, my dear, do you think I am ^ daft over a pretty 
face?’ ” drawing himself up. 

Now don’t come le g^'and seigneur over me. Bob. It 
may paralyze an audience, but it falls flat on your hum- 
ble servant. Are you going to sit up all night, and keep 
that child up as well?” 

No, I am going to clear out now. What a crank you 
are. Fat. I am going to exhibit you as a rival of the 


ONI. 


133 


American Giiitean. ^ There^s millions in it!*” ohrowing 
up his hand in imitation of John T. Raymond. 

It is such a clever imitation that Mrs. Harrison begins 
to laugh heartily. 

‘"Walk right this way, gentlemen, and see the ” 

he begins, changing to a showman; but this is too much 
for Mrs. Harrison, who snatches up an Indian club from 
the corner, and chases him from the room. 

“ Good-night, Patrice,” he calls over the balustrade. 
“ Don^t let that old bear eat you before morning.” 

“ Good-night, sir,” she calls back. “ I think I shall be 
safe.” 

The next day, true to his word. Bob Clifton arranges 
for an interview between Mr. Dean, the manager of the 
theater in which he is engaged as leading man, and Oni, 
which results in her being engaged for a part of ten lines, 
for the new production, which is to be presented the fol- 
lowing week. 

Her beauty and grace make themselves felt even in so 
small a part, and when, through the illness of the leading 
comedienne, she is permitted to try something in which 
there is really a chance for the display of talent, she rises 
to the exigencies of the situation, and the next morning 
awakes to find herself, if not quite famous, at least with 
the groundwork securely laid, and her name, spoken 
with admiration and respect, upon almost every tongue 
in London. 

“ What did I tell you. Lady Wisdom?” says Bob Clif- 
ton, flourishing the morning papers under Mrs. Harri- 
son^’s nose; “she carried the audience by storm last night, 
and this morning she positively owns every dramatic critic 
ill London.” 

At that moment Patrice enters in a pretty neglige robe, 
and seeing the papers in his hands, she is beside him in a 
moment. 

“ What is it. Bob? Tell me quickly.” 

“ My dear child,” he answers with owl-like solemnity, 
“ if you do not allow your head to assume undue propor- 
tions, there is a chance of your being a second class co- 
medienne at a first-class salary some day.” 

“ Don^t tease the child. Bob; you know she is not quite 
accustomed to your foolish talk yet. You have scored a 
distinct hit, Patrice, and I congratulate you.” 


134 


ONI. 


Oh, I am so glad, so glad!^^ cries Oni, clasping her 
hands in unaffected delight; ^^what if I had been a fail- 
ure after all your kindness and trouble!^’ — clasjDing a hand 
of each as she kneels between them. 

AVe should have become pauper patients of an insane 
asylum,’^ says Mr. Clifton, wiping away a make-believe 
tear with the sleeve of his coat. 

Come to your breakfast at once,’^ says Mrs. Plarri- 
son practically, or the coffee will be stone cold. I am 
hungry. 

Of course you are!'’^ says Clifton teasingly; whoever 
saw you in any other condition? Fat, Til make a bet 
with you. I"ll bet Patrice has an offer to star in America 
before the run of this piece is over.” 

^*^011, no, no!” says Oni in dismay; don’t want to 
go to America. Indeed I do not.” 

What under she sun are you thinking of?” says Bob 
Clifton in amazement; ‘Mvhy, you can pocket more good 
solid ducats there in one week, if they like you, than you 
could get here in a year. Fame is a great thing in its 
way, but it is awfully poor food and drink. I am not an 
extravagant liver, neither do I believe in air pudding as 
a daily diet, not being exactly a chameleon; but beauty van- 
ishes, fame rusts, and even genius tacked on to old age does 
not arouse enthusiasm, most especially in your line, my 
child. You have got to look out for that old age or any 
misfortune which might occur, and the pounds, shillings, 
and pence are the only things I know of which can help 
you. America is the, place for the filthy lucre. It has been 
my hobby for sometime, but as I don’t suppose I shall ever 
set the Thames afire there is not much show for me.” 

“ I would not go for all the world,” says Oni, ear- 
nestly, unless you both go with me.” 

Well, I don’t think it would require very much per- 
suasion for either of us, do you. Fat?” says Clifton, 
laughing. . 

Yes, we can fall astern and be towed, I suppose,” 
says Mrs. Harrison, somewhat grimly. 

""And if the ship sinks, be sucked in,” says Oni, with 
somewhat of p hysterical smile. 

will be no sinking,” says Clifton, firmly, 
f ^ike a good many of our 
dowager actresses. She can’t endure to see the youth 


ONI. 


135 


and beauty of to-day make a spring and land where it 
took those of her day years to crawl. My dear, yon will 
go to America; you will be successful, and — well, the 
Lord knows what a fool you may turn then, and He won^t 
tell until His own good time. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

As I realized that it was really Oni Cray who stood be- 
fore me upon the stage of that theater, I think I forgot 
everything but my own selfish joy. 

I am still gazing at her murmuring mad, reckless 
words of love to my own heart, when suddenly I am re- 
called to myself by hearing a voice. 

It seems to come to me from across a broad expanse of 
frozen sea, and reminds me of a tropical sun shining 
down upon an enormous iceberg. 

Take me home!^'’ says the voice, and I am compelled 
to look at the speaker to recognize it. 

Even then I scarcely know who has uttered the com- 
monplace sentence, for the face beside me is so difierent 
from the glittering, brilliant beauty of Dolores Vegas. 

Deep lines have obliterated the pretty dimples, the eyes 
are glazed, the lips ghastly. 

What is it, Lola?” I cry, catching her sharply by the 
arm and forgetting my selfish gladness. 

Take me home!” she repeats, but this time- there is 
a ring of such anguished entreaty, that I question her no 
more. 

I wrap her cloak carefully about her and lead her from 
the box, shielding her from public gaze as much as possi- 
ble as we pass through the audience. 

I place her in the carriage, and, as I take my seat be- 
side her, she shivers as with an ague and draws her cloak 
more closely about her. 

Are you ill?” I ask, solicitously. 

But she leans wearily back and allows her white lids to 
droop over her haggard, burning eyes, and does- not speak. 

In silence we reach her home. 

Come in,” she says to me when the servant has ad- 
mitted us. I must see you to-night.” 

I follow her into her small parlor, and she gently closes 
the door. 


136 


ONI. 


She turns and looks at me, her great eyes sparkling and 
burning and giving a peculiarly weird look to her deadly 
pale face. 

Why do you not speak she says, in a parched, hard 
voice. 

""What ails you, Lola?” I ask, gently. ""You are un- 
like yourself.” 

""As if you did not know!” she says, some little color 
coming back to her vaice. "" Candor is your charm. 
Jack. Don^t turn to a hypocrite. Not now, above all 
times, for God^s sake!” 

I am speechless. I hardly know myself how I feel, 

"" Tell me quickly,” she says, hurriedly, almost breath- 
lessly, "" who is she?” 

"" Veronique Gray,” I answer, slowly, ""the girl whom 
I believe to be your sister.” 

Her lips move, but no sound comes from them. 

I spring to her side and throw my arm about her, but 
she pushes me gently from her and steps back. 

""All my life I have lived for my mother,” she says, 
brushing back her hair and speaking in a slow, monoto- 
nous way which is intensely pitiful. ""I was never young 
like other girls. I knew nothing of their pleasures, or 
hopes, or aspirations. My one joy was to give her pleas- 
ure, my one hope was to see her child restored, my one 
aspiration to make her happy. I Iwed in the world, but 
not of it. I met you, and I ” 

She gulps down something which seems to rise in her 
throat, and does not finish her sentence. 

After a time she goes on: 

"" I have prayed for her return as I never prayed be-*" 
fore, and God has answered my prayer. Oh, Heavenly 
Father!” she says, clasping her hands across the back of 
her head, ""I never realized what it would mean to me, 
or I would not have had the courage. My one love, 
my one joy, my life, my darling, lost — lost to me for- 
ever!” 

She throws herself forward, face downward, upon the 
floor, and lies there so motionless that I believe she has 
fainted. 

I gently raise her, but her eyes are wide open, and 
great drops of perspiration stand out on her face and 
around her mouth. 


ONL 


137 


She smiles at the look of misery in my eyes. 

That was the first burst, you know, Jack,’^ she says, 
bravely. shall feel better now. DonT look so miser- 
able, poor boy. It is not as if you had deceived me; it 
is not as if I had not known all along. What a Christian 
suffering should Inake of one! I think that for the first 
time I realize the anguish experienced in the garden of 
Gethsemane, when our Redeemer prayed that the bitter 
cup might pass from him.-’^ 

'^Why need you think of that, Lola?^^ I say, knowing 
her sorrow by comparison with my own. 

Do you think it is so light a matter to give you up?^' 
she asks, turning to me almost fiercely. ^‘The passions 
of my nature are too strong to form attachments easily 
broken. It is like asking me to give up my own life, and 
to take it with my own hand.” 

‘^I have not asked you to give me up, dear,” I say, 
with an effort; ^^and I have no intention of doing so.” 

^‘Do you know me so little. Jack, after all these 
months?” she asks, looking at me yearningly. Can 
you think that I would condemn you to a life of misery 
with me when I knew you loved another? Even if I were 
selfish enough, my good sense would prevent it. You 
would grow to hate me, and my heart would break by 
slow degrees. Oh, I ought to be glad she has come back, 
for my mother's sake. But I cannot! — my God, I can- 
not!” 

She rises and walks hastily up and down the room, her 
hands clinched so tightly together that her nails make 
great blue marks in the delicate fiesh. 

I go to her, and taking both her hands very tenderly 
in my own, I place them upon my breast. 

“ Lola,” I say, there is no reason why you should 
make this sacrifice. I neither ask it nor wish it. Surely 
you can trust me, can you not?” 

She looks me firmly in the eyes, and says in a manner 
which compels the truth: 

Can you tell me in all honor and sincerity, that if 
you were a free man, you would not seek her in mar- 
riage?” 

My eyes droop and I am silent. 

She draws her hands from me and heaves a great 
sigh. 


138 


ONI. 


‘^Go, Jack, gor she says, bitterly, ^^ancl let me be 
alone to try and control my heart. Let me pray God to 
be thankful for my sister’s return and that it may be the 
means of restoring my mother to reason. Let me lorget 
all the happiness of the past few months, all the beauti- 
ful plans for the future and all my heart s true love. 
You will be happy, she will be happy, my mother will be 
happy, and I 

She breaks into a hard, bitter laugh which startles 
me. 

Don’t do that!” I say, catching her by the shoulders 
and shaking her a trifle. 

It suddenly occurs to me that what has happened to 
her mother may come to her, and it appalls me. 

She seems to read my thoughts and it frightens her as 
well, for she grasps my arm and says, hoarsely: 

Not that! For God’s sake not that! Kill me first! 
Oh, merciful Father, let me die, let me die.” 

''Lola,” I say, speaking sharply, "you must control 
yourself or no one can tell what may happen to you. Are 
you so selfish that you wish to ruin my life by putting 
that curse upon me?” 

It is a harsh speech, but I know it will be an effective 
one. 

"You are right,” she says, humbly, " I am selfish, un- 
utterably selfish, but I will be so no more. It is hard, 
very hard, but I will bear it bravely now. I ought to 
have come in alone and fought my battle out by myself, 
but I was weak, so weak. You forgive me, do you not?” 

" There is nothing to forgive, my poor girl. But you 
will reconsider and not send me from you, will you not?” 
I say, earnestly. 

"No, no,” she says, with a gesture of repulsion. "I 
could never marry you now — never, never! You would 
hate me, and I should loathe myself. Oh, my dearest, 
my darling! go, go now while I am mistress of myself! 
The sight of you only unnerves me.” 

"I cannot endure to leave you like this, Dolores.”! 
say, gently. 

"Don’t think of me,” she says, pushing me toward the 
door. " I shall be best alone.” 

Tenderly and lovingly I take her in my arms for the 


ONI . 130 

last time^ for the last time I press my lips to hers, and 
with a feeling of blind, agonizing pity I leave her. 

ilie cold air revives me somewhat, and once out of her 
stirring presence I am disgusted with and ashamed of 
myself for the relief “I feel. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

It is too late when I leave Dolores to call upon Oni at 
her hotel, and I am reluctantly compelled to wait for the 
morrow. 

Quite early I receive a note from Dolores by a messen- 
ger, and hastily opening it, I read: 

' ^^Deak Jack, — AYith the daylight shining full upon 
the remembrance of my selfishness of last evening, I am 
ashamed. Maidenly modesty counted for nothing in 
comparison with the horrible awakening from my happy 
dream. 

‘^This morning I see, in my imagination, my mother 
with her reason restored, hap23y in the possession of her 
children and the love of her youth, and thanks be to 
God my senses have returned, and I cam be thoroughly 
content in the happiness of those I love. I beg that you 
will forget last evening, and as much of the past as does 
not leave me simply your friend. 

Go to my sister and tell her of us. Assure her of our 
love, and of how more than rejoiced we will be to receive 
her once more. I ask this in the name of our friend- 
ship and the relationship which I hope may exist at some 
future time. Always affectionately, 

Dolores."' 

I am delighted with the letter, for though I know it is 
simply designed to put me at my ease, and I know that 
she is suffering none the less, still it shows me that Dol- 
ores is her own true, noble self again. 

It is almost eleven o'clock before, with throbbing 
heart and nervous, anxious tread, I present myself at 
the dooi’ of the hotel where I have learned she is stop- 
ping. 

Has she in her success forgotten the man whose life she 
saved ? 


140 


ONI. 


Was her generous act inspired by childlike, heroic pity; 
or does she return this fervent love of mine? 

I will find that out before I tell her of her mother and 
sister, for I want no wife bought with gratitude such as I 
know she will feel toward me, even though my discover- 
ies were the result of accident. 

I am shown up to Miss Patrice^s own parlor, and as 
the servant receives permission to enter, he throws open 
the door, anno*unces Mr. Wilton,” and retires. 

As I enter Oni recognizes me at once. 

With a glad cry ^he springs to her feet, rushes at me 
like a small whirlwind, then suddenly stops within a foot 
of me, covered with confusion. 

Her exquisite face grows rosy red, and the little hand 
which she puts out to me trembles perceptibly. 

I am so glad to see you, Mr. Wilton,” she says, with 
a funny little gasping sigh of content. 

^‘And surprised, are you not, little Oni?” I ask, to 
gain time to control my foolish heart. 

^‘Yes,” she answers, a little cloud coming over her 
bright face she remembers why she should be sur- 
prised. I have been playing "here almost a week. 
Why were you so long in coming?” with her old naivete. 

Do you suppose I would not have come at once if I 
had known?” I say, still retaining her hand. I only 
discovered you last night.” 

Eeally? Oh, I forgot about the name. Gracious 
alive!” she says, turning suddenly around. In the ex- 
citement of seeing you again, I quite forgot my old 
friends.” 

For the first time I see that we are not alone in the 
room. 

A dark, handsome man sits at perfect ease in a large 
arm-chair, his long, graceful legs stretched out. He 
wears a dressing-gown of crimson and black, and on a 
table beside him lies a meerschaum pipe, as if he had 
just been indulging in the pastime of smoking. 

A lady is half lying upon a couch, in indolent fashion, 
with a freshly-cut novel lying unheeded in her lap. 

‘^Mr. Wilton, let me introduce Mr. Clifton,”* says Oni. 

He rises slowly, extends his long, white, artistic hand, 
and grasps mine firmly. 


ONI. 


141 


I am glad to meet any friend of our little girFs, sir/’ 
he says, in a richly-toned, hearty voice. 

My dear old friend, Mrs. Harrison, Mr. Wilton,” 
continues Oni. 

Don’t rise,” I say to that lady, as she gets up from 
her comfortable seat. 

‘MVell, I wouldn’t,” she says, as she smilingly gives 
me her hand, but I am going to leave you for better 
company,” holding up her book. Patrice and Mr. 
Clifton have put me in a bad humor, jabbering away 
like magpies, when I wanted to read. Au revoir I’ll 
see you another time, Mr. Wilton, as I dare say this 
will not be your last visit.” 

She, pinches Oni’s flushed cheeks playfully, and, as Oni 
said afterward, made a hurried exit.” 

Were you in England, Oni?” I ask, because my head 
is in a whirl, and I can think of nothing else. And 
how did you get there?” 

Was she!” says Clifton, answering for her. Well, 
you would have thought so if you had seen the racket 
they made over her when she left.” 

But you are glad to be back in America?” I ques- 
tion. 

am glad, more than glad to see you,’’ she answers, 
quietly. 

It is now my turn to flush. 

‘^But she did not want to come to America,” says Mr. 
Clifton, maliciously. Patrice, my dear ” — taking her 
face between his hands and looking at her in a manner 
which does hot arouse my jealousy, so free is it from any- 
thing but brotherly regard— it strikes me very forcibly 
that I know a little girl who has been telling some fibs 
about ^no friends in the world,’ and all that rubbish. 
There! there!” — as he sees her face grow painfully red — 

I forgive you, 07 ii.” 

He emphasizes the name, which I see he has never 
heard before, laughs lightly, and turns to me. 

"'You will excuse me, Mr. Wilton, I know,” he says. 
" I have an appointment, and my time is up. Good- 
morning.” 

We shake hands again, and he leaves us. 

Decidedly I like Mr. Clifton. 

When we are alone Oni stands silent for a moment, 


142 


ONI. 


playing with a dainty ribbon upon her pretty oieglige 
robe, then throwing off her embarrassment, she seizes my 
arm and gently pushes me toward a chair. 

“ Tell me all about it quickly, she says. ^^How did 
you get out? Where is Howard? And are they, the 
police, looking for me still ?^^ 

For the first time it flashes across my mind that I must 
not tell her too much. 

Howard is her brother as much as mine. I mus't re- 
member that, and not prejudice her against him. 

The police were never looking for you,^'’ I stammer. 

Then Mr. Howard told a — spoke what was not true?^^ 
she asks, in anxious surprise. 

There was some mistake,^" I answer, as easily as I 
can. Your generous, noble act very likely saved me 
from the scaffold, but I hope you believe — I hope you 
hioio — I would not have allowed you to do it if I had 
known.” 

Yes, I do know,” she answers, gently. Oh, Mr. 
AVilton, how could he deceive me like that, and make my 
life such a torture?” 

Do not let us speak of him,” I say, anxious to get 
away from the subject. You are safe and I am safe, 
thanks to you. How tell me something of yourself.” 

She tells me a small portion, hurriedly, of what I have 
already tried to tell, but it is sufficient for the time. 

^^Were you surprised when you saw me last night?” 
she asks. 

'"Indeed, yes,” I answer. 

""And how did you like me?” 

"" As I have always, shall always like you, above all the 
world,” I answer, earnestly. 

"" But my acting, I mean,” she says, flushing hotly. 

""There were reasons, which I will tell you another 
time, which prevented my seeing you act,” I say, hesitat- 
ingly. 

^ She refrains from questioning me futher upon that sub- 
3ect. 

""You will come to see me play, will you not?” she 
asks somewhat wistfully. 

""Decidedly,” I answer. ""The papers tell me, Oni, 
that you have made a great success in London. Has the 
little girl who promised to allow me to be her friend in 


om. 


143 


fclie old glen back at home, come back heart-whole, or 
has she left it in England 

It is not in England,"" she answers, softly, her pretty 
color coming and going vividly. 

‘‘And this handsome actor, who seems to know yon so 
well?"" 

She laughs merrily. 

“Bob! Why, I would just as soon think of falling in 
love with — with my, grandfather."" 

I get up and take a turn up and down the room, the 
buttons on my coat suffering sadly from the twisting they 
get. 

I feel awfully nervous. 

I never had the slightest difficulty before in saying 
what was in my mind to a woman, but this pretty, cool- 
looking child disconcerts me. 

“ Oni,"" I say at last, going behind her and leaning 
over her chair, “did you leave your heart in America 
when you went away?"" 

She gives a great start. 

“ You took mine with you, dearest,"" I continued. 
“Even when I believed you dead, as I did think, my 
heart followed into the grave which I believed your dear 
form filled. I have never loved any woman in all my life 
but you, my darling, and sometimes I am presumptuous 
enough to believe that you would not have mad e^ the 
sacrifice you did for me, unless — unless you cared a little. 
Am i wrong, my darling?"" 

I wait for some moments for her to answer, but with 
averted head and downcast eyes, she remains silent, her 
hands clasped tightly in her lap. 

“ My trusting little girl has not learned to be a co- 
quette, has she?’" I continue, as she does not speak. 
“Tell me what I am to. expect and don"t torture me, 
darling. My dearest, my sweet, if you only knew how 
fondly, how truly I love you !"" 

I linger over the last words tenderly, but she will not 
look at me. 

Then I place my hand upon her beautiful, rounded 
cheek, and with gentle force turn her face to me. 

; She raises her eyes to mine for one moment, just one, 
and lowers them again, but it is enough. 


144 


ONI. 


With a cry of rapture I throw myself upon my knees 
beside her, and draw her to my heart. 

I kiss her lips passionately, yearningly, trying to make 
up to my rapidly pulsating heart for all its months of 
loneliness. 

For a time she seems to give herself up entirely to my 
caresses, returning them, and looking . now into my eyes 
with all the tenderness I can desire. 

Tell me that you love me, dearest, only once,^^ I 
plead. Say Jack, my Jack, I love you.^’ 

I do love you, Jack,’^ she says, timidly. 

And I will he your wife,^^ I continued, not satisfied. 

Say that, too, my sweetheart.'’^ 

But she pushes me from her, and rises quickly to her 
feet with a low cry of intense pain, and stands" looking 
down at me with wild, horrified eyes. 

cannot,” she gasps. I cannot say that.” 

I rise to my feet in startled astonishment. 

What do you mean?” I ask, slowly. Why can you 
not say you will be my wife?” 

Oh, Jack, Jack!” she says, throwing herself sobbing 
into my arms, why have you forced a confession of my 
love from me? I never dreamed that you loved me, in- 
deed I did not, and I am so sorry, so sorry. When I 
heard your words I only thought of my own selfish joy, 
but I cannot be your wife,” drawing back from me and 
shuddering slightly. 

My heart seems turned to ice. 

You are promised to another?” I question. 

^^No, no! It is not that,” she answers, nervously. 

‘^Whatthen?”Iask. 

She looks sorrowfully at me, but does not speak. 

‘‘It is my right to know, Oni,” I say, ^^and I will have 
an answer. You say you love me and yet cannot be my 
wife. I demand the reason.” 

She turns her back upon me and bursts into tears. 

Then I see what I could not before in my great stu- 
pidity. 

For a moment I am bewildered, utterly stunned. 

I take her by the arm and forcibly turn* her face to the 
light. 

Do you believe that yet?” I ask, so hoarsely that I 
scarcely recognize my own voice. “ Do you think that it 


ONI. 


145 


is the murderer of Ealph Dalton who asks you to become 
his wife?’^ 

She neither raises her eyes nor answers me, but stands 
trembling and silent. 

For a long time I look at her, drinking in the exquisite 
loveliness of her face, and trying to fight down my own 
heart. 

She has bitterly wounded me, and I Avould die ten 
thousand times over again, before I would seek to make 
any explanation to her. 

My intense pride is up in arms. 

I heave a sigh which tolls the death knell of all my 
hopes of happiness, and drop her arm. 

beg your pardon,^^ I say, more coldly than I have 
intended to speak, and I pray that you will foreret my 
presumption.^^ 

Oh, Jack, do not be angry with rne!^'' she sobs, 
flinging herself upon my breast. My heart is broken.'’^ 

I place her gently in a chair and I seem to myself like 
a marble man as I stand before her. 

I am not angry,” I say calmly. You have wronged 
me deeply. Some day you will acknowledge it to me and 
without my solicitation. Until then we will drop this 
subject.” 

But you forgive me, do you not?” she says, meekly, 
then adds passionately, as she seizes my hand, ^^for, my 
darling, my darling, I love you, love you, nothwithstand- 
ing all.” 

There is nothing to forgive,” I say, withdrawing my 
hand. I do not blame you for not wishing to marry a 
man whom j^ou believe to'be a murderer. I only wonder 
how you could love such an one. 

Oni, I did not come to see you purely upon a selfish 
matter to-day,” — wishing to change the conversation 
and speaking as naturally as I can. Do you remember 
telling me, in those old days in Virginia, something of 
the remembrances of your childhood?” 

^^Yes,” she answers sadly; ‘^it seems to me that I can- 
not forget anything. Sometimes I wish I could.” 

You spoke of your mother and the little Spanish sen- 
tence she used to say to you.” 

Yes; I recall the entire conversation.” 


146 


ONI, 


^^Well, Oni/’ I stamnier, liave heard that sentence 
spoken by other lips than yonrs/" 

In an instant she is on her feet. She grasps my aini 
and seems to understand what I have to tell her. She is 
deadly pale and her voice is scarcely more than a whis- 
per. 

My mother! You have found her?^" 

Can you hear a great shock, little girl?"^ I say gently. 

‘^Yes/" she answers; “I am young and strong and 
brave. Speak quickly.'" 

I have found your sister and your mother. 

She releases my arm and would have fallen, but that I 
catch her just in time. 

'' Take me to my mother," she says when she has re- 


covered herself. 

I will take you to your sister," I say, and she will 
tell you of your mother. Go now and change your dress. 
I will wait." 

I seat myself in an arm-chair to wait, and she goes to 


the door. 

There she pauses, then returns to nie. 

She leans over the back of my chair timidly. 

''Jack," she says, so low that I can scarcely hear her, 
" will you allow me to reverse my words of a few min- 
utes since? I will be your wife, if you will let me." 

" Never!" I say vehemently; " do not speak of it again, 
as it is most painful to me. Your first answer was wis- 
est. Keep to it." 

She turns hastily from me and quickly leaves the 
room. 

Thank God I put that question to her before I told, her 
of my discovery. 

Suppose she had come to me through gratitude, and 
believed her husband to be a — — 

Ha! the thought sickens me. 

And yet, perhaps my answer just at the last was a lit- 
tle cruel. Perliaps my suffering made me a trifle un- 
just. 

God knows I did not mean it. 

But my nature revolted so at being thought capable of 
such a crime. 

I do not hear her when she re-enters the room. I do 
not feel her presence as she stands beside me. 


ONI 


147 


Mr. Wilton, I am ready/’ she says, with humility. 

How lovely she looks m her dainty little hat and pretty 
cloak. 

My eyes seem to devour her. 

Oni,” 1 say, unsteadily, ^^you must forgive me for my 
harshness to you a few moments ago. In my passionate 
pain I spoke more forcibly than I intended.” 

Her lips quiver but she does not look up. 

Don’t be unkind to me, little love,” I say, pleadingly, 

for I am very miserable.” 

I am still sitting, and she places her pretty arm around 
my neck. 

Before 1 know what she intends, she has kissed me 
tenderly upon the lips. 

You take back your words. Jack?” she asks, faintly. 

You will allow me to have my own way?” 

No, darling,” I answer, rising. Whenever you can 
preliminate that request with the words, ^Jack, I know 
you to be innocent of that crime,’ then only God knows 
how glad I shall be to grant it, but not until then. I am 
too proud to accept a woman who gives herself to me 
through gratitude. I do not deserve it. I do not want 
it. You are very generous, very noble, but I cannot ac- 
cept your second sacrifice. The first was thrust upon me; 
the second, thank God, I have the courage to refuse.” 


CHAPTEK XXIX. 

When we reach the home of her sister, Oni and I find 
Howard there. 

I am both surprised and displeased, for, though he is 
their brother, he seems to have no business to be present 
at their meeting. 

The sisters need no introduction, but recognize each 
other from their close resemblance. 

Oni timidly waits for her sister to make the first ad- 
vances, but, without a word of introduction, they are 
locked in a fervent embrace. 

"'Had I ever met you, Vera, I should have known in- 
stantly that you were my sister,” says Dolores, the tears 
streaming over her face. "You are exactly as I remem- 
ber you as a little child. There is positively no change 
at all. Has Jack told you the story, my darling?” 


148 


ONI. 


He has told me nothin^/' answers Oni. He is too 
afraid of hearing a word of gratitude for that” 

She turns to me, smiling through her tears, and as she 
does so, sees Howard. 

She starts forward, then coldly drops her eyes. 

Howard is deadly pale and terribly embarrassed, but he 
is not a man to allow any such feelings to overcome him. 

He steps forward and holds out his hand. 

She affects not to see it. 

Will you not shake hands with your brother, Oni?” 
he says, quietly. 

fail to see by what right Mr. Howard Wilton pre- 
sumes to claim a relationship with me,” she returns, 
haughtily. 

“ Vera, darling, don't say that,” says Dolores, placing 
her arm affectionately and protectingly around her sis- 
ter's waist. ‘‘ Howard Wilton is your brother, your own 
mother's son.” 

I shall never forget the blending of horror and con- 
tempt in Oni's eyes as she realizes the import of these 
words. 

‘‘ My brother!” she repeats, mechanically, then a great 
light of fear spreads over her face, and she turns help- 
lessly to me. And you?” — the words seeming to be 
wrung from her very heart. 

I am only your devoted friend, nothing more,” I say, 
smiling reassuringly. 

She shows inexpressible relief. 

Then Dolores extends her hand to me with a little 
hysterical laugh. 

''But you will be my brother some day. Jack, will you 
not?” she says, softly. 

"I will never be more to you than I am now, Lola,” 1 
answer, as bravely as I can. 

'' Oh, Jack!” 

The exclamation was simple enough, but' I never heard 
more sorrow, more sympathy, or more regret expressed 
in hundreds of words. 

It almost brings the tears to my eyes. 

" I will leave you now, Lola, alone with your sister,” I 
say, anxious to take Howard away, as I see his presence 
IS a restraint. " If 1 can assist you in anything you 
may decide upon doing, you know how happy I shall be.” 


ONI. 


149 


As if we could or would attempt anything without 
you,” says Lola. Be sure you leave word at your rooms 
where you are to be found, in the event of my telegraph- 
ing you.” 

I shall not forget,” I answer, taking a hand of each 
to say my good-bye. 

'‘It seems to me, Jack,” says Howard, with apparent 
good-humor, though I can see he is chafing under it, 
" that you are usurping my position, and taking my 
brotherhood from me. I shall protest by and by.” 

For a moment both sisters are silent, then Oni hesi- 
tatingly extends her hand to him. 

"Forgive me, Howard,” she says, in a low voice, "for 
remembering the past at a time like this, and being a 
little frightened and — and horrified at our relationship. 
It is all new and strange to me, and my head seems to 
have grown so dense that I cannot understand anything. 
It will all be clear enough presently, I suppose, but I 
should like to feel that there was friendship between me 
and — and — my brother. ” 

The words are a great effort to her, and there is not 
much heart in them, but Howard accepts them, though 
there is a cold glitter in his eyes which does not please 
me. 

He takes her hand, kisses her lightly upon the fore- 
head, and as he sees a slight shiver pass over her, he 
turns to me, with a disagreeable smile. 

" Come, Jack,” he says, " I suppose we are de fro2) 
now. I shall give you the pleasure of your loving 
brother’s society for a few blocks.” 

We take leave of the sisters, and go down the stoop to- 
gether. 

"Do you realize, dear brother,” says Howard, when we 
have gone but a few steps, "that I have but two weeks 
now in which to enjoy my liberty?” 

" What do you mean?” I ask, not clearly understanding. 

"That only two weeks will elapse until I take upon 
myself the chains of Hymen. Of course I shall expect 
you to be 'best man.’” 

I look at him in undisguised disgust. 

" You are still determined to carry out that nefarious 
scheme?” I ask. " You are still determined to ruin that 
girl’s bright, happy life ” 


150 


ONI, 


Are you really going over all that ground again, Sir 
Parson?” he says, sneeringly. Yes, 1 intend to carry 
out my scheme of marrying the girl I love.” 

^^Bah! AVhydo you thus pollute the word love? I 
tell you the act you contemplate is iniquitous, impious, 
audit b^e done.” 

You have said that before, also,” he returns: ""but I 
do not see that you have accomplished much in the way of 
preventing it. Bo you think I am such a fool that I be- 
lieve you will go to Grrace Melrose and tell her a lot of 
foul stuff of which you have no proof? Or do you think 
I believe you to be a consummate idiot?” 

"" Desperate cases require desperate remedies,” I answer. 
"" Whether you are a fool or T am an idiot matters little. 
I have been cleared of that crime. I am not in love with 
Miss Melrose, and I have nothing whatever to gain by 
exposing my brother’s guilt, consequently my words will 
have some weight.” 

"" As you quoted to me once, " forewarned is forearmed,’ ” 
he says, lightly, but with a look in his eyes which I do 
not like. "‘ I shall take care to put you where your words 
will not be heard. I am not threatening your life, my 
dear brother; but I sim^ffy defy you. Let us have fewer 
words and more acts.” 

""You are right,” 1 say, slowly. ""For the future we 
will look to the fruit instead of leaves.” 

He raises his hat to me with ceremonious politeness, 
smiles satirically, and turns down a cross-street. 

"" By the way, Jack,” he says, swinging round with easy, 
careless grace, and facing me again, "" if you must write 
an " In Memoriam ’ to your untarnished reputation ” — 
with burning irony — ""don’t say that I did not warn you 
and try to keep your feet from thorny paths.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The morning following my interview with Howard, my 
father and I breakfast together. 

Notwithstanding Howard’s restoration to my father, he 
has not forgotten his lately formed attachment tome, 
and he remains with me, never having returned to the 
Grange. 

I have told him all the circumstances which occurred 


ONI. 


151 


yesterday, omitting, of course, my proposal to Oni, and 
my unpleasant war of words with Howard. 

lie is enjoying his coffee and morning paper, when a 
sudden exclamation from^him arouses me from my gloomy 
reflections. 

By Jove!” 

What is it, father?” I ask, seeing he is a trifle ex- 
cited. 

‘^Why, the Melrose house has been robbed,” he an- 
swers. Only think of it! Last night— and of silver- 
ware, jewelry, and a good round sum of money. They 
have got a clew to the burglar, however, for he dropped 
his handkerchief, and a small portion was torn from his 
coat by a jagged piece in the end of a trunk. The police 
have the piece of the coat and the handkerchief. There 
is a tremendous sensation over it in the paper, it was such 
a bold, daring thing. Bead it.” 

He hands me the paper, and I do read it, because I 
like and esteem the lady who loses by it. 

They are sure to catch him,” my father says, nodding 
his head wisely. 

I donT know,” I say, hesitatingly. A fellow as bold 
as that is apt to cover his tracks well. A handkerchief 
is a poor clew, and the coat is easily destroyed. 

"'Ah, my son, the police of the present day ferret out 
everything. They have got detective work down to a 
science. 

" Yes, and men have got murder and robbery down to 
a science,” I say, somewhat bitterly. ^ "^The chances are 
even for his escape or detection, I think.” 

" Even if a crime goes unpunished at the time, it will 
be found out sooner or later,” says my father, with con- 


" Sooner or later, yes,” I answer, striding up and down 
the room in excitement. " But not, sometimes, until the 
life’s happiness of an innocent man is destroyed. Some- 
times not until an unblemished reputation is tarnished 
and stained, and an innocent man is made to suffer lui- 
miliation and degradation and despair. Is there justice 
in the world, that the pure in heart must suffer and bear 
the sins of the guilty?” 

" Man is not all wise, not all powerful, my son, says 
my father, solemnly. They do what they believe to be 


152 


ONL 


right, but sometimes err through ignorance. Thep is a 
jjromise, however, which is as sure as death, and will last 
until the sun grows cold. It is, ‘ I will repay, saith the 
Lord.^^^ ' 

I bow my head in acknowledgment of his superior wis- 
dom and goodness, and at that moment a messenger-boy 
is shown into the room. 

The communication is for me, and recognizing the 
stylish, pointed hand of Dolores, I open it hastily. 

It is very brief, and reads: 

My Dear Jack,— The second test for the restoration 
of my mother^s reason occurs, by the doctor^s desire, at 
eleven o’clock this morning at my own home. We will 
expect yourself and your father to be present. Help me 
to pray that we may not again be so terribly disap- 
pointed. Anxiously and affectionately, 

"" Dolores.’’ 

When I read this letter to my father he is more excited 
than I have been a moment before. 

He can scarcely control his impatience until the time 
passes and we are on our way to the house where Dolores 
now reigns as mistress, and where her mother’s terrible 
misfortune occurred. 

Oni looks very lovely and very childlike, dressed as she 
is in a very short white muslin, with low neck and 
sleeves, caught up on the shoulders by pale blue ribbons. 
A sash of the same shade is around her waist, and her hair 
hangs in raven curls over her shoulders. 

She is dressed, as nearly as Dolores can remember, as 
she was the day the ghastly affair occurred, and every de- 
tail of the room is the same. 

My father takes the little girl very gently in his arms, 
he asks her forgiveness for his part in her mother s mis- 
ery and her own, and gracefully and tenderly thanks her 
for giving him his son’s life. 

I have assured him of her purity and innocence, and he 
knows that I have not spoken falsely. 

i.1 physicians of the asylum is with us to see 

that all IS properly arranged. 

The room is light, the sun streaming in at the windows, 
and shines caressingly upon the somewhat faded draperies 


ONI. 


153 


from which it has been shut out for nearly fifteen long, 
merciless years. 

Scattered over the floor are a child’s toys, just as they 
were left then. A little train of cars thrown upon its 
side, a number of dolls, some broken, some undressed 
and others gorgeous in fine clothes, a cooking stove in 
miniature, a doll house, dishes in profusion, and in the 
center of the room a heap of blocks, forming a half-built 
house, with loose ones lying round. 

The sound of wheels warns us of the approach of Mrs. 
Vegas and the other physician. 

You are an^ actress Miss Vegas,” says the physician 
with us to Oni. - The world says you are a good one. 
Eemember that it is not applause you are seeking to-day, 
but what is more than your mother’s life, her reason. I 
will not say that it all depends upon you, for that would 
be too much responsibility to throw upon your frail 
shoulders, but much depends upon your coolness and 
naturalness.” 

Oni’s cheeks are burning like fire and she trembles so 
that she can scarcely stand. 

She has already been fully instructed in the part she is 
to play, and I can see that she is determined to bravely 
carry it through. 

In silence, but with much affection, Dolores, noble, 
true-hearted Dolores, kisses her, and we all withdraw. 

Dolores meets her mother in the hall, and taking her 
to her own room, removes her wraps and bonnet. 

Is it not delightful for you to come to> visit me 
mamma?” she says gayly. 

Very pleasant,” returns her mother. ^^Why cannot 
I live here with you Dolores?” 

So you shall, darling,” answers her daughter. And 
we will be so happy together, will we not?” 

“Yes when Vera comes back to me,” says Mrs. Vegas 
pensively. 

“ Vera will come back, mamma. God will keep His 
word to you.” 

“ Yes. He told me again last night.” 

They have wandered, by Lola’s design, to the door of 
the room where Veronique sits upon the floor completing 
the house which her childish hands had begun almost fif- 
teen years before. 


ONI. 


154 

As Dolores gently imshes open the door; Oni claps her 
small hands as if in delight over her success, and breaks 
into that ringing peal of childlike laughter which I know 
so well and never could forget. 

Mrs. Vegas stops short. 

She clasps one hand to her head, the other to her 
heart, and seems hardly to breathe as she listens. 

Then a great change comes over her face. 

All the motherly devotion of her nature, all the love 
and tenderness come over her, and holding out her arms 
slie calls with sweet, loving pathos: 

"'Vera, come to mamma, my darling.” 

Instantly the little creature on the carpet rises to her 
feet, and laughing and dancing with childish abandon, 
she throws herself into her mother's arms. 

Bewilderment, content, and absolute joy fight for mas- 
tery in Mrs. Vegas' face. 

She sinks into a chair with Oni still clasped in her 
arms, she looks at her in dumb, inexpressible rapture, 
then, for the first time in all these miserable years, she 
breaks into passionate, uncontrollable weeping. 

The doctor holds up a warning finger and not one of 
us speaks or moves. I think we scarcely draw our 
breath. 

How Oni bears the strain I cannot understand. 

After the first violent outburst, the weeping becomes 
more and more gentle, seeming to drop as a soft shower 
from heaven, then ceases altogether. 

Still she holds Oni tightly to her breast, stroking the 
glossy black hair, but speaking no words. 

" My baby, my baby, " she says, at last, God has kept 
his word and brought you back to me. The sun shines 
at last" — pointing to it and seeming to see it for the first 
time — "the flowers bloom, summer and warmth and life 
have come back to me, and I am happy, happy, happy!" 

She weeps again, long and silently. 

Oni puts her little hand upon her mother's cheek, and 
murmurs: 

" Were you cold, mamma, my darling, away from your 
little girl?" 

"Yes; but that is all forgotten now, my pet. AVhere 
is Dolores? Why does she not come to me?" 


ONI, 


155 

I am here, mamma,” says Dolores, kneeling by her 

side. 

She has come back, Lola, and the music is ringing 
in my ears again. The old sound of rushing water is 
there no more. I feel like a slave released from bondage. 
I feel as though the weight of the world were lifted from 
my brain. Lola, Vera, what mean all those years of for- 
getfulness and dead despair? I cannot think, I cannot 
think; but my brain is clearing, the sun is clearing the 
haze away. I am content to wait, for I am' happy at 
last.” 

She embraces her daughters affectionately, then con- 
tinues: 

But there was one came while the darkness lasted. 
Where is he? God has brought Vera back. He can 
bring him again.” 

^‘^Is it I for whom you are asking, my dearest?” says 
my father, stepping through the open door into the room. 

Arthur!” 

The exclamation is so low that it can scarcely be heard. 

She leaves her daughters, rises unsteadily to her feet, 
and slowly, pitifully, humbly creeps into^his arms, and is 
folded to his breast. 

I donT think any of us quite see what occurs for the 
film over our eyes. 

My father gently carries her to a sofa and lays her 
upon it, with her head pillowed upon his bosom. Oni 
and Dolores kneel beside her, and with a hand clasped in 
each of theirs, a sweet, peaceful smile upon her face, she 
falls into a quiet, refreshing sleep, seeming to be over- 
come with gratitude, contentment, and happiness. 

Anxiously we appeal to the doctors, more by looks than 
words, to know the import of this symptom. 

‘"Ho failure this time,” says the elder of the two. 
“We could ask for nothing better, and you have every 
reason to thank God for His divine pity.” 

Then brave little Oni, or Vera, as her mother and sis- 
ter insist upon calling her, gives way, and loses con- 
sciousness. 

She has played her part well, and has won her great 
reward. 

It is late in the day when, leaving my father with his 
first and truest love, I return home. 


ONI. 


156 

Heaven knows I am glad of their happiness, and I 
covet not one grain of itj but it does seem a little haid 
that I must be the only one to suffer. 

Only one, did I say? , , , 

Why do I forget Dolores, who, though she has one joy, 
has a sorrow almost equal to my own? 

No, she is not regarded as a murderer by one for whom 
she would gladly give her life. 

Thus it is that in no enviable frame of mind I reach 
my own lonely apartments. 

As I insert my latch-key to open the front door a man 
runs lightly up the stoop, and laying his hand heavily 
upon my shoulder, says, gravely: 

John Wilton y in the name of the law I arrest youT 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

'"For what am I arrested ?’" I ask, when I can over- 
come my bewilderment. 

"Burglary!’’ 

"Burglary!” I repeat, as though dazed. "And into 
whose house have I broken?” 

"The Melrose house,” answers my accuser, laconic- 
ally. 

Then it all flashes across my mind. 

This is Howard’s revenge. 

This is the threat he has made, put into execution. 

I stagger up against the door, which, I believe, keeps 
me from falling. 

The weakness is only momentary, however, and I am 
myself again almost at once. 

"Will you allow me to leave a note here for my 
father?” I ask, calmly; "then I will go with you.” 

"Certainly,” the man answers, "but I shall be com- 
pelled to go to your room with you.” 

"I have no objection to that,” I say, inserting my key 
and opening the door. 

The man is by no means discourteous. His manner in 
laying his hand upon my shoulder was not pleasant, but 
since he has seemed to shrink from his disagreeable duty, 

I motion him to a chair and write a note to father. 

Poor old man! What a blow this will be to him. 


om. 


157 


My dear Father — I write, — The son who was un- 
justly accused of murder, has now to bear the epithet 

thief ^ as applied to him. I need not tell you I am in- 
nocent. I have your words of this morning to console me, 
^ the promise is as sure as death, I will repay, said the 
Lord.^^^ Will you break this shocking news to Dolores 
and Oni as gently as you can? They love me like sisters 
and my disgrace will hurt them. 

“It breaks my heart to bring this shame upon you, 
but perfect innocence is my justification. 

“ Affectionately your son, 

, “Jack."" 

“Now, sir, I am ready to go with you,"" I say when I 
have sealed and addressed my letter. 

“ I am sorry to be compelled to take you, sir,"" he says, 
respectfully, “but there is a warrant for your arrest, and 
I should be discharged if I failed to do it."" 

“You must do your duty,"" I say. 

When weTare down-stairs I call a carriage and together 
we drive to the Tombs. 

Once again I am in a prison cell for a crime which I 
never committed. 

What will be the result this time? 

There is no alibi to save me now, for I was absolutely 
alone in a part of New York where I am totally un- 
known, last night, trying what walking and air could do 
to help me subjugate my heart. 

If Howard has laid his devilish plot well, there is no 
reason why it should not succeed. 

What will Oni think now? Will she believe this of 
me, as well as the other crime? 

And Dolores? 

Somehow Dolores always suggests infinite trust and 
abiding faith to me. 

All that night I pace up and down in my cramped 
quarters, never trying to induce the sleep which I know 
will not come to me. 

I feel worse than when I was confined for murder, for 
then I believed that “right is might,’" but I came so near 
losing my life then, and was saved only by an innocent 
lie, that now I am discouraged and anxious. 

With the morning of the following day, Mr. Clifton, 
bringing Dolores and Oni, come to call upon me. 


ONL 


158 

Through the courtesy of the warden I gm allowed to 
receive them in his office. 

Oni greets me timidly, Dolores affectionately, and Mr. 
Clifton with that gentlemanly heartiness which so well 
becomes him. 

"‘Your father is with mamma. Jack," says Dolores, 
“ hut he sends his dearest love and will visit you later in 
the day. Some one had to remain, and I was selfish 
enough to ask him to do it, because I knew that 3^^011 
would never doubt his trust, but you might ours. Oh, 
Jack, is it necessary to assure you that we know you are 
innocent?"" 

“I knew you would never doubt me, Lola.’" 

I cannot help a slight emphasis upon the pronoun. 

Oni flushes, but remains silent. 

“ Well, I never met you but once, Mr. Wilton, but I 
was completely " flabbergasted " when Patrice, or Oni, or 
Vera, told me. That child has so many names that it 
confuses me. As I was saying, I met you only once, but 
we actors learn to be pretty good judges of faces, and 
you have not the face of a rogue. Any man or woman, 
either, who would believe you guilty of that crime, is a 
"chump" of the first water."" 

Mr. Clifton says all this in his richly-toned voice, with 
a heartiness that surprises as much as it pleases me. 

""Thank 3mu,"’ I say, simply, grasping the hand he ex- 
tends to me. 

"" Of course, you can prove the outrageousness of this 
absurdity at once?” he says. 

""Unfortunately, I cannot tell yet. I know only that 
I am charged with burglary, and I have no more idea 
than you have of how I came to be accused, or what 
proof there is against me."" 

""Ha-ve you any enemies?"" questions Mr. Clifton. 

""Yes,"" I answer, feeling a hard, steely coldness come 
over me, ""and he is the instigator of this plot. I believe 
he would sell his soul to ruin me."" 

Before I have finished speaking Dolores is beside me, 
her hand upon my shoulder. 

Oh, Jack,"" she says, "" has he done this, do you think? 
Can he be so heartless, so utterly lost? Surely there must 
be some mistake."" 

""I can assert nothing positively,’" I answer, gently. 


ONL 


159 


but it is my firm belief that he is as guilty as I am in- 
nocent. How else could any proof whatever be fastened 
upon me?’^ 

It’s a bad business all through/ says Clifton, rising; 

but if I can do you any good, you can count upon Bob 
Clifton every time. I am going to leave you for awhile, 
but will return in about an hour. That will be soon 
enough for you, will it not, ladies?’^ 

He looks at Dolores for his answer, and she nods smil- 
ingly and gratefully to him. 

‘ ‘"Good-bye, he calls, cheerily, as he passes out the 
door. 

“What a thoroughly good fellow he is,” says Dolores, 
earnestly, “and how I do like him!” 

“ He is honest and true,” I say, sincerely. 

Then I turn to Oni, who has not spoken. 

“ Oni,” I say, “ have you no word of trust for me?” 

“I — I am sorry — for — you,” she stammers, growing 
more pale. 

"She does not raise her eyes, or offer to look at me. 

I understand only too well. 

“ Good God!” I cry, leaping to my feet and standing 
before her. “ Can strangers trust me quicker than you? 
Do you believe me a thief as well as a murderer?” 

She does not answer me, but sits trembling and silent. 

Dolores comes to me. 

As I stand looking down upon Oni, and wondering 
how a child like that can be so merciless, she touches my 
arm. 

“Jack,” she says, in the most peculiarly hushed tone 
I have ever heard, “does she, my sister Vera, for whom 
you have done so much, believe that of you?” 

“She believes both charges— yes!” I answer. “Can 
you not read it in her face? 

“ Oh, Vera, Vera, how can you! Listen to me, child, 
and let 7ne tell you for whose crime this man is blamed. 
Listen, and then let shame rest upon you forever.” 

“ Dolores, I forbid you to speak!” I say,' catching her 
hand in mine. “I have your promise, and I do not ab- 
solve you from it.” 

“ Can you expect me to keep my word in face of such 
injustice?” she asks, vehemently. 

“l expect it; nay, I command it!” I answer, firmly 


160 


ONL 


She looks at me a moment^ then turns despairingly 
away. 

Oh, child, child,” she says, ''how cruel you are! and 
how you will regret this some day.” 

For the first time Oni raises her eyes to my face. 

"Jack,” she says, stretching out her arms tome, "for- 
give my dowbt, forgive my suspicion, and remember what 
I sawJ^ 

There is such bitter agony in her lovely eyes that from 
my soul I pity her. 

I kneel by her side and take her gently in my arms. 

" I cannot blame you much, little one,” I say, looking 
at her tenderly; "but I think if I had seen you strike 
the blow I would have trusted you.” 

"I have not such faith. Jack,” she answered, with a 
sob in her throat; " but I do not understand myself, for 
in spite of all I love you.” 

She has spoken in a low tone, but now, regardless of 
her sister’s presence, she throws her arms around my 
neck and sobs bitterly. 

" Why do you not allow me to tell her?” questions 
Dolores, almost sternly, as she returns to us. "What 
Quixotic idea have you got into your head now that you 
desire to shield him?” 

I release Oni and rise to my feet again. 

" In the first place, she would not believe you,” I say, 
earnestly. " There shall be no explanation made to her 
with my consent, but she will know some day, and her 
repentance will be bitter for the injustice she has done 
me. It will be hard for me to forget what she has been 
so ready to believe, and, being only a man, it will be 
equally as hard to forgive. She says she loves me, and 
yet believes me capable of crime. I cannot reconcile 
those two feelings in my own mind. If I could under- 
stand any motive she might have, I would believe that 
Patrice, the actress, was indulging in a little bit of stage 
effect for my benefit. She shall be told nothing, abso- 
lutely nothing, for I have no fancy for bearing, in addi- 
tion to my reputation as murderer and thief, the name of 
liar and knave as well.” 


ONI, 


161 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

OKI stares at me with eyes from which all tears have 
flown for some moments in silence, almost in dismay. 

Now that I have flashed out my temper and aired my 
outraged honor, I am sorry. 

Sorry, at least, that I have spoken, though every word 
was meant and felt enough. Heaven knows. 

I am surprised that a pure woman could allow a man 
whom she believed to be a double criminal to hold her in 
his arms, and that she should speak words of love to 
him. 

I suppose I ought to be grateful for a depth of love 
which can stand such a test as that; but I do not believe 
in such love, and, if it exists at all, it is a degradation to 
its object, as well as to the person who feels it. 

There is no pure love without respect and esteem, and 
how could she feel that for me, thinking as she does? 

It is impossible. 

I am sorry that I have subjected myself to this in- 
sult, Mr. Wilton,^’ says Oni, drawing herself up haughtily. 
A ‘ It is to be regretted that I cannot control the weight 
of evideuce which presents itself to my own mind suffi- 
ciently to believe as you would have me believe. It is 
also unfortunate that I have not sufficient tact to conceal 
thoughts which have given you offense. You are to be 
congratulated, however, upon the quickness of your re- 
covery from sentiments so recently expressed. 

Before I can reply to her, or apologize for my brutal 
speech, the door is thrown open, and Reginald Pierre- 
pont enters. 

What is this, old fellow?” he says, putting his arms 
across my shoulders and looking into my eyes. The 
whole world could not make me believe you guilty of this 
crime.” 

I am glad for Oni to hear those words, and yet it hurts 
me that she should be the only one to believe me guilty. 

Thank you, Reg,” I say, simply. 

Then I introduce him to Dolores and Oni. 

He looks at Oni long and earnestly. I have told him 
most of the story the day before yesterday. 

did not get your note last night, Jack, and >vas 


162 


ONI. 


detained from tire office this morning. You may be 
sure I went to work to find out all I could about the case, 
then came to you at once,” says Reg, turning to me 
atLi. “ David Birdsall is at work for you now 

I am glad of that,” I answer, seriously, for I am 
perfectly sure that he will find out all there is to be 

^°’‘°l’had the pleasure of seeing you play last evening. 
Miss Vegas,” ho says, turning to Oni. “I need not tell 
you that I enjoyed it. You must be weary of compli- 

is pleasant to please,” answers Oni, with a faint 

Don’t let us waste time in talking of that, please,’’ 
says Dolores, a trifle annoyed, “ but toll us what proof 

there is against Jack. 

Pierrepont hesitates, evidently emharrassed. 

Go on, old friend, I say. It can make no differ- 
ence. These ladies are my very dear friends."" 

"^Well, in the first place,"" says Reginald, still hesitat- 
ing, the handkerchief found bore your name."" 

^^Of course,"’ I say. "'I expected that. As if any 
man who had sense enough to be a burglar would carry 
such an evidence of his identity about him. But go on. 

Then the piece which w'as found upon the trunk was 
torn from a coat belonging to you and concealed in youi 
wardrobe. The texture, color, and jagged tear cor- 
respond exactly."" • ' i. 

As if I should not have destroyed the coat, nnaing 
it to be mutilated,"" I say, in disgust, What else?" 

Reg pauses a moment. 

“ Then,"" he says, the search was about to be given 
up, when a small door in the lower part of one of the 
closets, which had been overlooked, was found. It was 
securely locked, but being forced open, it was noticed 
that the floor had a peculiar appearance. They removed 
a few of the planks, and the money, together with the 
stolen jewelry, was found between the floor and the 
plastering of the room below."" 

Great God!"" I ejaculate. 

My face must be as pale as death . I know I am vio- 
lently agitated, that all this could have been done in my 
room and X none the wiser, 


om. 


16B 


My hands shake and* I droj) a handkerchief which I 
liave in one of them. 

As I stoop over to pick it up, my eyes encounter a face 
fixed upon me in such burning pain and despair that for 
a second I turn faint and giddy. 

It is Oni^s, and she has taken my emotion as an evi- 
dence of guilt. 

What an outrage! I wish I were a man that I might 
have some hand in avenging this frightful wrong!'" 

It is Dolores who speaks. 

Dolores, who trusts me as she does her own soul, God 
bless her. 

Is there anything in my favor, Eeg?" I ask, when I 
can control my voice. 

‘^Nothing that we have discovered yet," he answers. 

But its falsity is easily proved, even with that weight 
of evidence. Where were you last night?" 

Alone. Absolutely alone, and in a part of the city 
where no one knew me, from about nine o'clock until al- 
most four," I answer, throwing back my head and lookr 
ing straight at Veronique. 

Eeg's face falls. 

^^How unfortunate!" he says, gnawing his mustache. 

^^Undoubtedly, but none the less true," I say, with de- 
cision. It is too bad that I cannot be saved a second 
time by an alihi, but such is the case." 

I am ashamed of my brutal, ungrateful speech the mo- 
ment it is uttered, but there is no help for it now. 

Oni's face flushes ciimson, and as Bob Clifton is shown 
in at that moment, she rises and crosses hastily to him. 

She lays her hand upon his arm in a trusting, confid- 
ing sort of way, and says, with a suppressed sob: 

Take me away. Bob. I am not well, and — and we 
are due at the theater." 

I smile grimly, and introduce Clifton to Pierrepont, 
taking no notice of Oni's speech. 

Quick-witted Bob Clifton discernes at once that some- 
thing is amiss. 

He turns to Dolores. 

I cannot but notice, even under these trying circum- 
stances, the difference in his manner toward the two 
girls. 

To Oni he is protecting and affectionate, even fatherly. 


164 


ONI, 


To Dolores he is embarrassed, bis eyes fall when they 
inppf, li6rs. a/iicl liG spGciks timidly. . . , 

There is but one conclusion to be drawn, i'? 
with Dolores. If he can win her love, he will vin the 

*"^'wiiryTcome?”®L’sS-to Dolores, when he has 

®‘‘a\uppose so,” she answers. “ Good-bye, Jack. 1 
will come every day that I can. It is an awful thing for 
you all round, dear, dear old fellow, but don t lose heait. 
You will come out the victor yet. Such villainy as that 

**“MayTcome again, Mr. Wilton?” says Clifton, as he 
shakes hands with me Tombs is hardly 

a cheerful place in which to receive visitors. If you do 

not mind, however, I should be very glad if you will 

come.” , . ^ 

Expect me/’ he says, Drieny. 

Oni timidly offers me her hand in silence. ^ 

Even through her glove I can feel how cold it is. 

I press it in silence, and large tears rise in her lovely 

^^“’What made you speak like that to that child, about 
that alibi. Jack?” says Keg, when they have left us. 
Because I was a fool,” I answer, dejectedly. 

I think you were,” he says, severely, and a brute 

beside.” , „ • .n 

‘at is hard to ha^e her the only one of my friends 
to believe me guilty,” I say, bitterly. I am both a 

murderer and a thief to her; had I not as well be a 
brute?” 

“ That may be true,” says Eeg, dryly. A murderer, 
a thief, and a brute are all very well, but in a lady’s pres- 
ence I should try to remember that ! was born a gentle- 
men, if I were you.” 

“You are right,” I say vehemently. “I think that 
scoundrel will make me, by and by, what he has threat- 
ened, a thing abhorred by the world and loathed by my- 
self.” 

“You think Howard did this then?” questioned Keg, 
but without surprise. 

“Think? I hnow it! Who else could have entered 


om. 


165 


Iny rooms so freely? He threatened to ruin me, but in 
my senseless idiocy, I did not believe he would do it. I 
knew him to be totally devoid of honor, but I did not 
believe him to be a fiend. I should have been on my 
guard. There is no exbuse for a man who knows the 
world as I do, but simply brainlessness: but he shall rue 
this i)iece of work, if there is justice on earth or m 
heaven. He has degraded and ruined me, and for it I 
will have his miserable life. Convicted or acquitted, I 
swear to you that as there is a God in heaven, I will MU 
Mm 


OHA.PTER XXXIII. 

Eaely on the morning of the following day I am much 
surprised by a visit from Miss Melrose. 

She is accompanied by a male relative, who by her 
desire waits outside, and as I am brought in her pres- 
ence and left alone, she rises and extends both hands to 
me. 

Oh, Jack, how sorry I am for all this,^^ she says, her 
pretty eyes overflowing with tears. If I had only 
known, I might have prevented it all.” 

Prevented what?” I asked. ^^My robbing your 
house?” 

Xo,” she answers, in embarrassment. I meant 
' your arrest.” 

But what about the robbery?” 

She looks distressed. 

^‘^How can you ask? Do you think I believe that 
odious falsehood? I should as soon think it of — of mv 
self.” 

I press her hand, which still remains in mine, grate- 
fully, then place a chair for her. 

It is awfully good of you to come and tell me this, 
but I am surprised that my brother permitted it,” I say, 
a trifle bitterly. 

She draws herself up haughtily. 

^^Mr. Howard Wilton has not control of me yet,” she 
says, coldly. Possibly when he has I may submit to 
his commands.” 

‘^I ho23e to Heaven he will never have,” I say, ear- 


nestly. You are too good, and true, and noble to be 
the wife of such a man as Howard. 

“ Don't say that," she murmurs a little sorrowtully. 
was disappointed in Howard, that he should socalrnly 
avow your guilt, and forbid my calling upon you; but 1 
dare say he thought he was acting wisely." 

So he did that!" I say, grimly. ^ t -n 

Yes, and he insists upon the prosecution. Hut i will 
never consent. Jack, never!" 

I am amazed for a moment at his audacity. 

‘^Not if I wish you to go on with it?" I question. I 
cannot accept any acquittal through default. I wish my 
trial to be conducted upon purely equitable principles, 
and I am willing to suffer the consequences. " 

Oh, Jack, my almost brother, you cannot think how 
it all hurts me. Is there nothing I can do? IS! o way that 

I can help you?" ‘ ^ t 

Yes, there is one way," I answer, seriously; but i 
fear you will misunderstand my motive in asking it," 

I could believe nothing of you that is not noble and 
true," she says. I promise to do it before you ask." 

^^Then do not marry Howard until after I am either 
found guilty of this felony or acquitted of the charge. If 
I am convicted, promise to see me once before you do it. 
Will you grant this request?" 

She hesitates for some time, then answers: 

That you have some reason for making this extraor- 
dinary request I feel sure, or you would not do it, there- 
fore I promise. Will you tell me your reasons for ask- 
ing it?" 

Not now. I ask you to trust me. If I told you now 
you would believe me either a knave or a madman. You 
may tell Howard of my request and your prornise." 

Is that all I can do? It seems to me that it will help 
you so little." 

It is a great relief to me," I answer. It is all just 
now, but for you to go on with the case as if I were any 
other burglar.' 

Good-bye then, and remember that you will make me 
happy by calling upon me for anything you desire at- 
tended to. Dear Jack, I wish you knew how sorry I am 
and how much I trust you." 

My eyes grow dim. 


ONI, 


1«7 


Thank you/^ I say simply and turn my head away. 

She understands and presses my hand affectionately. 

Good-bye again/" she says in a trembling voice, and 
leaves me. 

How many good friends I have, after all. 

I am standing, staring at the closed door through 
which she has passed, when it opens again and Oni en- 
• ters. 

She comes slowly up to me and timidly puts out her 
little gloved hands. 

have been so miserable,” she says in a low voice, 
without greeting me, that I had to come this morning. 
I persuaded Bob Clifton to let me see you for a few 
minutes alone, because I wanted you to take back those 
hard bitter words you spoke to me yesterday and tell me 
that you forgive me for mine.” 

^^Do you still believe what you did then?” 

Listen to me. Jack. Away back in the old dead days 
in Virginia, when I was a miserable, ill-treated, friend- 
less thing, you were kind to me and treated me as though 
I were something human. It \7as the first kind word I 
had to remember, except a little sentence which I did not 
understand. You seemed to like me and forget that I 
was an ignorant, ill-natured nobody, who was only in the 
way of the world. 

^‘^My meeting with you was like a page from a ro- 
mance to me, and I worshiped you as my hero. The knowl- 
edge of your engagement to Miss Lestrange did not lessen 
it, for I never thought that you could care for an unedu- 
cated waif as I was then. 

When I saw that— that murder ” — shivering slightly 
— I was dazed, horrified; but I never thought that it 
ought to lessen that mad, unformed love of mine. My 
only thought was to save you, to do something to deserve 
the friendship you had offered me, but even then I went 
to her first. I begged her to save you, but she would 
not. I thought hers was the first and best right, because 
she loved you, and above all, you loved her, but she said 
it would be a lie and she could not. In my ignorance, 
I was not frightened at a lie. I forget the opinion you 
would form of my modesty. I cared not what the world 
would think; my whole soul cried out ^ save him, save 
hjm!" and I was deaf to any other sound, 


1G8 


ONL 


For the first time I awakened yesterday to the enor- 
mity of what I had done. I realized what a contempt 
vo/had formed for me, and though I had accomplished 
my purpose, I had lost your respect. Oh, Jack, think 
of my motive; if you can, forget the act, and take back 
that look of withering disgust and contempt you gave me 


yesterday.'’^ 

She clasps her hads tightly, and her tender, pale lips 
quiver with emotion. 

I take her in my arms and kiss her gently. , , ^ 

‘‘I can never make you understand how I have hated 
myself for my cruelty to you yesterday, my darling, i 
answer, softly. I have never felt anything but grati- 
tude to you for your generosity to me then; I have 
thought of you except as a pure, ingenuous, noble child. 
I loved you with all my heart before you did it, and I 
have loved you ever since. How can I make you believe 
this, child, after my brutality of yesterday?’^ ^ ^ ^ , 

I am only too willing to believe it — too glad to be- 
lieve it. You do not understand how I can love you, 
and yet believe these things of you. Kemember how few 
I had to love. Jack, and how that love grew m my child s 
heart until, as a woman, I could not tear it from me. 
Innocent or guilty, you are more than all the world to 
me, for I love you — love you with my heart, my soul, my 


lifer’ 


For the first time the littleness of my nature is revealed 
to me, and I see that here is a love that passeth under- 
standing. 

To doubt her would be to believe Truth to be a liar, 
and Innocence guilty. 

She seems to rise almost to the height of angels in my 
eyes, and I look at her almost with reverence. 

"‘My darling, my dearest, my wife!” I murmur, kiss- 
ing her tenderly. “ You have given me a new lease upon 
hope and happiness. I will prove my innocence to you 
yet. I will have your respect, as well as love, for I am 
not guilty, Oni; I swear it by my love and by my hope 
of a. happy life with you.” 

I sit down, almost overcome with the intensity of my 
feelings. 


She takes mj face between her hands, and looks long 


160 


ONI 

and earnestly into rny eyes, which I meet without flinch- 
ing. 

^'1 could not love you better were you an angel from 
heaven,^^ she says. Possibly not so well, for I am sorry 
for you, my darling. DoiPt you know how a mother 
loves her wayward son the most? My heart yearns over 
you in that way, and my very soul seems to cry out for 
you. You seem to need my love, and it is all yours, all. 
I saved you before. Jack, and if there is a power upon 
earth which can save you now, it shall be moved. ’’ 

You may do so if you can, my sweet,’’ I say, earnestly, 
“ but it must be done legitimately, if at all. There must 
be no untruth this time. I will serve my time in the 
penitentiary first, and then trust to God to prove my in- 
nocence.” 

Almost before I have time to remove my arms from her 
waist, the door is opened and two gentlemen enter. 
Only the clicking of the key in the lock warns us. 

One of the gentlemen is Pierrepont, the other a 
stranger. 

Pierrepont greets me and says a few words to Oni, who 
remains standing, her eyes fixed upon the floor. 

Then he presents me to the gentleman, and as he calls 
the name Oni starts, and clasps the back of her chair for 
support. 

Mr. Wilton, let me introduce Mr. Oakland, who 
thinks he can assist you in 3 ^our forthcoming trial. Miss 
Vegas, will you allow me to introduce Mr. Oakland?” 

After shaking hands with me, Mr. Oakland turns to 
Oni. 

He turns deadly pale, then recovers himself, and ex- 
tends his hands. 

I have met this lady many times before,” he says, 
steadily. Patrice, are you not glad to see me?” 

I am glad,” she says, in a low voice. But how do 
you happen to be liere? and where is your wife?” 

She is in the city with me. - I have much to tell you. 
She will be so rejoiced to see you.” 

^^She does not know ” begins Oni. 

She knows all, God bless her,” says Oakland, fer- 
vently. You were my good angel, Patrice. May we 
not call upon you to-day? We have so much to say.” 

Come, by all means,” says Oni, flushing crimson. 


i?0 

She gives him the address of her sister’s house, where 
she is now living, and Mr. Oakland turns to us again. 

You must pardon me, gentlemen,” he says, apolo- 
getically, “for forgetting you both in my surprise and 
pleasure at seeing this young lady. M e are quite old 
friends. I knew her in England.” 

Pierrepont smiles and bows. 

“Jack,’‘ he says, turning to me, “this gentleman 
thinks he saw the man who robbed the Melrose house, 
and he has come with me to see if he can identify him.” 

Oni places her hand to her heart and seems scarcely to 
breathe, so intently is she listening. 

“ He was leaving the Union Club about one o’clock, 
and as he walked up Fifth Avenue,” goes on Pierrepont, 
“he saw a man leaving the Melrose house by the side 
door. He walked hurriedly and carried a valise, which 
seemed to be heavy. He was muffled to the chin, and 
had a hat well drawn over his eyes and concealing the 
back of his head. Mr. Oakland thinks he would be able 
to recognize the man, however, by a peculiarly swinging 
walk he had. Mr. Oakland, did that man resemble this 
gentleman in any particular?” 

“ This one?” says Oakland, in surprise. “Hot in the 
slightest degree. He was not so tall, and much heavier 
in build. The two are not in the very least alike.” 

Oni has grown pale to the lips. 

I cross the room to give her a glass of w’ater. 

“ Then they do not even walk alike,” goes on Mr. 
Oakland. “This gentleman has an elastic, springing 
step, while the other, while decidedly graceful, was 
swinging. As I think of it now, he strikes me as having 
been a man of culture in disguise. But why do you 
ask?” 

“This gentleman is accused of that crime,” answers 
Pierrepont. “ That is all.”* 

“ Preposterous!” says Oakland, in disgust. “ Why, he 
is not one bit like the man.” 

“The evidence is strong against me, though,” I an- 
swer. “ Y^our having seen a man leave the side door at 
that hour, does not prove much, unfortunately.” 

“ But what was he doing with a heavy bag in his hand 
and who was he?” says Reg. “ None of the Melrose peo- 
ple know.” 


ONI. 


171 


Then that is a point. Possibly, however, he was 
only some one inquiring the way,’^ I say. 

But none of the servants saw him. He came out of 
the house, for Mr. Oakland saw the door open and dose 
cautiously, says Reg, triumphantly. 

paid no attention to it, though he did act a little 
suspiciously, thinking it was all right, as people have 
such unusual hours for doing things in Hew York,^^ says 
Mr. Oakland, until I heard about the robbery. Even 
then it did not strike me, until passing by the house 
with a friend, we spoke of the burglary, and he pointed 
out the house. Then it all came back to me. I am as 
sure as I live that that fellow was the thief, and if I can 
do you any good, you have only to call upon me.” 

At this juncture. Bob Clifton comes for Oni, and Reg 
and Mr. Oakland leave us. 

Any news, Wilton?” asks Clifton, when they are well 

out. 

Mr. Oakland thinks he has found a point which will 
help me,” I say. I don’t know how to thank every- 
body for their great kindness to me.” 

‘^Well, you see, the thing is so absurd,” says Clifton. 

Oni places her hand in mine. 

Every one has been a comfort to you but I, Jack — I 
who would give my whole life, if it could do you any 
good,” she says, tremulously. If this thing does prove 
false, I shall never have courage to ask your pardon. I 
shall despise myself for my cruel suspicion more than 
you can do, and I shall never have the bravery to look 
you in the face again.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

This morning I am to' face a judge, a jury, and a pre- 
sumably crowded court-room for the second time. 

Why could not How^ard have chosen any other means 
of casting opprobrium upon my name than making me 
bear the epithet ^^hief ”? Of all the degrees of crime, 
that seems to me the most debasing and disgraceful. 

When I am summoned before the court I hang my 
head to escape the fire of curious eyes leveled at me as I 
pass through. , , i- 

I know my face is pale, and I must look like a guuty, 


172 


ONI. 


shrinking wretch, afraid to meet the penalty of my 
odious crime. 

So great is my sensitiveness, that I positively feel guilty, 
and I have not the countenance to even glance at Eegi- 
nald Pierrepont, who accompanies me. 

Father is there with Oni and Dolores, and Bob Clifton 
in their wake. I see them, even though I do not raise 
my eyes to look over the assembled crowd. 

I know the judge so well. He is a warm personal 
friend of mine, which makes the humiliation all the 
greater. 

The case is opened by the prosecution in the usual 
way. 

There is no new evidence elicited. 

The coat with its jagged tear and the piece are put in 
evidence, together with the handkerchief and the money 
and jewelry found under the floor of my closet. 

When Miss Melrose is called to the stand she testifies 


in a clear manner, which makes its impression upon the 
jury, even though it amounts to nothing as evidence. 

know nothing of the affair,’" she says, in answer to 
a question, save that on entering my room I found it in 
confusion. Upon examination I found most of my jew- 
elry and a sum of money to be missing. Further search 
revealed that a good deal of the silver had been stolen. I 
do not believe that Mr. John Wilton entered my house 
that night, nor that he had any hand in the disappearance 
of those things.” 

'‘Will you state to the court why you do not belieye 
that?” 

"Because,” she answers, firmly, "I have always found 
him to be a gentleman and a man of honor. It seems to 
be inconsistent with his entire nature.” 

"You will kindly not state opinions, but what you 
know to be the truth.” 

There are a few more questions with an unimportant 
cpss-examination and the prosecution closes for the 
time. 


important eyidence for the defense is given 
by Mr, Cuthbert Oakland, who tells the story of seeing 
the man leave the side door of the house, as he has al- 
ready told it to mo* 

■■Will you he in higeross-exaprlua^ 


ONI. 


173 


tion, tliat this is not the man you saw emerge cau- 
tiously from that side door?’^ 

^^Emphatically, I do, sir/^ 

Why did you not call the police, when you saw the 
suspicious conduct of the man/’ 

In the first place it did not strike me as being sus- 
picious. I merely noticed the man and thought no more 
of it at the time.’^ 

‘^In what essential points did that man differ from the 
accused ?” 

In every point. They were totally dissimilar. This 
gentleman is taller and slighter than that man, and their 
walk is entirely different.” 

‘^How long have you known the accused?” 

Never met him but once in my life.” 

When was that?” 

‘^I called at the prison to see if he resembled the 
man whom I saw.” 

How long did you remain?” 

Only a few minutes, perhaps ten.” 

‘^Who was present at that interview?” 

'^Mr. Pierrepont, Mr. Wilton’s counsel, and a lady/^ 

Will you state the lady’s name?” 

^^Miss Veronique Vegas,” answer Oakland- with evi- 
dent disinclination. 

That lady is known to the public as ^ Patrice/ is she 
not?” 

She is.” 

^'You knew her before you met her there, did you 
not?” * 

‘^Yes.” 

Have you ever had any conversation with her upon 
the subject of this robbery?” 

^^Yes.” 

"'Hid she urge you to save the prisoner if it was m 
your power?” 

" She did,” answers Oakland, much annoyed. 

" What did she say to you?” 

" She asked me to do what I could for Jack Wilton.” 

"Was that all?” 

" That was about the substance of the conversation.”' 

" Did she not cry, and toll you that she could not beav 

it if he were oouvicted?” 


174 


ONI. 


He is a very old friend of hers/’ 

That is not an answer to the question.” 

Well, yes, she did; hut I had already told in presence 
of witnesses every word to which I liave testified, and Miss 
Vegas’ importunity did not change the evidence I should 
have given had I never seen her.” 

That will do.” 

Evidently Howard or some spy in his employ had over- 
heard that conversation and reported it. 

I am more bitterly incensed against him than ever. 

His life will be worth very little if I once get out of 
this. 

Oni has drawn her veil over her face, but I know her 
modest, shrinking nature is suffering terribly. 

Dolores is ashy pale, and my father is furious. 

There is a pause, and the testimony in rebuttal is about 
to commence, when there is a slight stir in the court- 
room. 

A woman, heavily veiled, is coming quickly up the 
aisle. 

I demand to be sworn,” she says, firmly, when within 
a few feet of the judge. 

There is a short whispered consultation, which she in- 
terrupts by saying: 

I have testimony of importance to offer.” 

She is told to enter the witness-stand and remove her 
veil. 

This she does with steady fingers, when to my amaze- 
ment I recognize the almost forgotten features of Enid 
Longworth. 

What can she be doing here, and what can she know of 
the case? 

Her face is pale, but she seems perfectly composed, her 
whole attitude expressing a determination rather at vari- 
ance with her pretty, but somewhat characterless counte- 
nance. « 

Somewhat grimly she takes the oath, and smiles a trifle 
as the lawyer puts his first question. 

What is your name?” 

I am,” she answers, firmly, Enid Longworth Wil- 
ton, ivife of tliB hvother of your prisoner 


ONl 




CHAPTER XXXV. 

The entire court-room is electrified! 

An audible murmur goes over the assemblage, but the 
sound of the voice of the witness quiets it and a breath- 
less, expectant silence falls over all. 

I think I am more surprised than any one else can be. 

If you will allow me to tell my own story from the 
beginning, in my own way,^^ says the witness, in a steady, 
quiet voice, think I can convince his honor and the 
gentlemen of the jury, that the prisoner, John Wilton, 
had nothing whatever to do with the Melrose robbery.'’’ 

Go on,” says the attorney for the prosecution, seem- 
ing to be utterly dumfounded over this strange turn af- 
fairs have taken. 

I am a native of Gloucester County, Virginia, and 
have lived there most of my life with my mother, we 
being poor and compelled to work for our living. The 
father of Howard and Jack AYilton was of one of the old- 
est and wealthiest families in the state, and any attention 
shown my mother and me by them was merely caused 
from sympathy. 

There was a rumor in the country, which was not 
much more than whispered, that Ethel Blackmoor had 
killed herself because of Howard Wilton, and when he 
began devoting himself to me, as he soon did, on the sly, 
I was afraid of him and did not trust him. 

He has a convincing way, however, with women, and 
I soon grew to love him and believe that every one but 
him was false. 

Finally he asked me to marry him, and I was the 
happiest girl on earth. He told me that owing to some 
family matters our marriage would have to remain a se- 
cret for a time, but I cared little for that, so long as I 
was really his wife. 

One morning I was down in the glen, which is a 
small, romantic wood near Wilton Grange, when I heard 
voices. One of them was plainly Howard’s, and I stopped, 
not intending to listen, but not wishing to expose my- 
self to any of his friends. 

^ Of course you know,’ I heard Howard say, " I would 
not really marry her — none but a fool would think that — 


176 


ONL 


but the little idiot will have nothing to do with me unless 
there is a marriage, consequently she must be satisfied. 

A sham will answer all purposes for her and do me to a 
nicety.'’ 

I think those words slew every feeling in me but one 
of revenge, and I determined to be even with him. 

What do you wish me to do?’ another voice said, 
which I recognized as that of Peter Lathrop, a Catholic 
and a member of the same parish as myself. 

‘ You see, I have promised to marry her to-night, and 
I want you to impersonate the priest.’ 

‘ But she knows me,’ says Peter. 

^ I shall arrange to have the marriage take place here 
in the glen, and, as there is no moon, it will be so dark 
that she cannot recognize you.’ 

There were a few more instructions given to Peter, ^ 
something was said about a large sum of money, the hour 
was appointed, and they separated. 

Then the thought of how I was to have my revenge 
came to me. 

I sped away as fast as I could to the priest, and told 
him all— everything. He sent for Peter. What passed 
between them I don’t know; but this much I do know: 
that, in the darkness of the night, it was Father McClarty 
who met us in the glen instead of Peter Lathrop, and 
instead of the vile thing Howard Wilton would have 
made of me, I am his lawful, wedded wife. 

'' I kept my secret, and Howard Wilton does not sus- 
pect, unless he hears me now, how I, a poor, untutored 
country girl, outwitted him. 

"" He soon tired of me and left me. I lost trace of him 
for some time, but at last I heard of his engagement to 
Miss Melrose. 

I never intended to allow her to marry him, but 1 
wanted to punish him. I knew I could do her no harm, 
as their engagement was already announced. 

I came to Hew York and obtained a position as maid 
to Miss Melrose, and I knew every time Howard Wilton 
entered that house, the exact hour he left, and heard 
every word of conversation that was spoken, but he never 
saw me, and knew nothing of my presence there. 

I watched and waited and listened and at last was 
Rewarded, 


om. 


177 

On the night of the robbery. Miss Melrose had some 
company and they did not leave until quite late. I was 
in my own room with the gas turned very low, half 
asleep in a big chair. I was off duty watching, because- 
I knew Howard Wilton was not present. I had left my 
door partly open, that I might hear Miss Melrose as she 
passed to her own room and be ready to assist her in dis- 
robing. 

While I was sitting there I was startled by a faint 
sound, and as I listened I heard a soft, stealthy step in 
the hall. 

I slipped as noiselessly as I could to my door and 
saw a man making directly for the door of Miss Melrose's 
own room. 

I was about to cry out and alarm the house, when a 
projecting and unlighted gas jet caught his hat and 
pulled it off. 

^^To my intense amazement, I recognized my husband, 
Howard Wilton. 

Then I kept silent and watched. 

He replaced his hat and disappeared into Miss Mel- 
rose's room. I followed as close as I dared. 

I saw him drop the handkerchief, I saw him place 
the torn piece, which had already been prepared, on the 
trunk, and then hastily open the drawers and thrust 
whatever he could find in a bag he carried. 

He replaced nothing, but hurriedly left the room. 
As he passed the dining-room he took a few pieces of 
silver which had not been yet put away, as the household 
had not retired, thrust those also into the bag and left 
by the side door. 

I waited only a few seconds, long enough for him not 
to hear the opening of the door, then I followed him to 
the door of his brother’s house. 

I solemnly swear to you, gentlemen, that the real 
thief in this case is Howard Wilton and not his brother, 
who is on trial for this crime.” 

She ceases speaking and pandemonium reigns in the 
court-room. 

She has been giving evidence against her own hus- 
band, but no one has interrupted her, every one seems to 
be paralyzed. 

Only Pierrepont seems to retain his self-control and he 


1 « 


OA'/. 


sits with a bland, placid smile upon his face, seeming to 

enjoy the story. ^ ^ ,, , 

As the last words leave Enid Longworth Wiltons 
mouth. Miss Jlelrose, who, up to the present time, has 
borne all brayely, gives way and quietly slips from her 

sent in a dead faint. j tv*-- 

She is carried into a side room, her mother and Miss 
Ellrice Lestrange accompanying her. 

There is an order given to allow no one to leave the 
court, which no one, save the oflQ.cials, seems to hear. 

There are many raps for order,"" which is finally re- 
stored by a threatened ejection from the court. 

Oni sits with her head bowed forward upon the seat in 
front of her, and my father is ghastly, with great cords 
in his forehead and neck, which seem almost to be burst- 


I know how he is suffering for the sin of his favorite 
son. 

Dolores, God bless her, forgetful as usual of herself, is 
all attention to him, but I notice a glad light in her 
handsome eyes which touches me infinitely. 

Of course I am honorably discharged, but the search 
made for Howard is fruitless. 

Whether he has heard part of his wife"s testimony and 
has quietly withdrawn from the court-room no one seems 
to know, but certain it is he is not to be found. 

He may escape the officers of justice, he may even 
escape punishment in the next world, but he shall not 
escape me. 

I said it once before, but this time I will -keep my word. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

It is amusing to see the papers the morning following. 

The thief, John H. Wilton, is transformed into a 
martyr, suffering for the' sins of his brother. Where be- 
fore I was idle and inattentive to business, depending 
upon thieving for support, I am now a talented lawyer 
and a singer of great promise, bidding fair to equal the 
greatest artists in oratorio work. 

But Howard! 

Well, he gets no more than he deserves and not so 


ONI. 


179 


much, though I carefully conceal the papers from my 
father. 

^^You are my only son, Jack,^^ my father has said. 

I wish to forget that I ever had another. Let his mother 
believe him to be dead. It is best, for he is dead to me. 
I might have forgiven him his act, but to cowardly place 
it upon you I will never forgive. His hatred of you is 
something unaccountable." 

Hot to me, father," I answer. 

"" Well, I want to hear nothing about it. He has made 
of himself a thief, from no lack of money, but to ruin his 
brother’s reputation, and that knowledge is enough. 
Thank God! he did not succeed." 

Even then I tell him nothing of Howard’s first crime. 
I will let time take its course with that, as I have with 
this. 

Dolores and Oni wish us to go to Virginia to-night, 
father, to see if we can get proof of Oni’s birth," I say. 

You know we only have the remembrance, which is very 
slight, of both the girls, and their resemblance to found 
their relationship upon. Will you come?" 

"'Yes; but it seems to me to be quite unnecessary. 
Still as they wish it and you wish it, I will go." 

Accordingly we start that night for the old home of my 
childhood. 

Oni is ill, too ill to receive any one, though she bravely 
plays her part at night, so Dolores assures me, and Heave 
Hew York without a word from her. 

I know she is glad of my release though, and is ashamed 
of her want of faith in me. Lord love her little heart! 
as if I could ever remember that, or anything else against 
her! 

We see very few of our old friends at the depot, for 
though it is a great rendezvous for country people, it is 
hardly their time to be out. 

One of the old f amily^ servants meet us with a carriage 
and drive us to Wilton iGrange, which can never seem like 
home to me again now that it is. deprived of my dear 
mother’s presence. 

Whereas my father reveres her memory, I am the 
only one who loves it, and she is trebly dear to me on that 
account. 

We do not remain long at home, but leave the carriage 


ONI. 


180 

and go on foot to Ivy Cottage, where, after inquiry, we 
find Farmer Gray and his wife still live. 

Almost in silence my father and I proceed, and, as we 
reach the cottage, through the window we see the old 
crone sitting on a stool with her elbows upon her knees, 
smoking an old and almost black clay pipe, 

I knock upon the door which stands ajar. 

Come in,"" she says, in a loud, harsh voice, "'the door 
is open."" 

We enter, hut she neither speaks nor turns her head. 

/"Mrs. Gray, do you remember me?"" I say. 

Somehow the woman affects me strangely, and I am 
half afraid to speak to her. 

She turns and looks at me with half-closed eyes, then 
returns to her contemplation of the fire. If she feels any 
surprise, she certainly does not betray it. 

""Yes, I remember you well enough,"" she answers, 
shortly. 

"" This is my father,"" I say, hesitatingly. 

"" Is it?"" she says, without glancing at either of us. 

"" If your husband were here, he would remember my 
father."" 

"" Well, he ain"t here,"" answers the old crone, senten- 
tiously. 

' "‘ Will you not allow us to sit down?"" I ask, ignoring 
her impoliteness. 

"‘ I ain"t a-holdin" you up, am I?"" she asks, with her 
eyes still fixed on the fire. 

I place a chair for my father and get a stool for my- 
self. 

"" How soon do you expect your husband, Mrs» Gray?’" 
asks my father. 

"" Don"t know nothin" about it. I never asked him 
when he was a-comin" in,"" she answers, with no interest 
whatever. 

"" Madam, will you answer a few questions which we 
wish to put to you, about the young girl who used to live 
here with you, and was known as "Oni Gray?"" I ask, not 
without some fear of being put out of the house, 

Tlie look she flashed upon me was marvelous, I can- 
not tell its component parts, it was so mixed "witi hatred, 
fear, distrust, disgust and contempt. 




ONI. 


181 


I won^t/^ she says, emphatically,, ^^and if that’s 
what you’re come here for, you might as well get out.” 

It might be very much to your advantage to answer,” 
I say, insinuatingly. 

And it might be very much to your advantage for 
me to answer,” she returns, insolently. Listen to me, 
young man ” — rising to her feet and standing as erect as 
a young woman of twenty — Oni was an obedient child, 
if not at all times a happy or contented one, until you 
came around here. But you ruined her and took her 
away from here, and I want nothing to say to you. You 
get out of my house! It may be on your father’s ground, 
but I pay rent and it is mine.” 

She points with one long bony finger tow'ard the door, 
and though her words are ordinary, her tone and manner 
are majestic. 

^^I assure you, madam,” I say, with great respect, 

that you are mistaken. Up to the time that Oni Gray 
left this country, I had never seen her more than three 
or four times, and our acquaintance was of the most com- 
monplace kind.” 

‘^Then she lied in that court-room,” says the old 
woman, with decision. 

I do not answer. ^ 

If she lied, then yoi/killed Ealph Dalton,” she says, 
her eyes seeming to dilate, and her long bony fingers 
clutching each other ominously. 

I must resort to a sort of falsehood, I see, in order to 
gain my point. 

It was only the inference drawn from her testimony, 
that was untrue,” I say, earnestly. 

Then you did not kill Ealph Dalton?” 

On my honor, no!” 

And Oni did not leave here because of you?” 

On the contrary, I would have given my life to have 
prevented her going.” 

She looks at me long and earnestly. She even comes 
close up to me and peers into my face. 

Her breath, redolent with nicotine, is not pleasant, but 
I submit bravely. 

You look as though you spoke the truth, she says at 
last, ‘'But bah! what difference does it rnake to yoq 
'^yhetUer she went or stayed 


OKI. 


im 

Mucli/’ I answer. AVill you answer a few questions 


now 

(< 


What do you want to know?’^ she says, in a non-com- 


mittal way. 

In the first place, was 


Oni Gray your daughter?"^ I 


ask. 

She starts and looks at me keenly. ^ 

What is that your business?” she asks, in a hard, cold 


'' Possibly none,” I answer, looking her steadily in^the 
eye, but I may make it to yoi^r interest to answer.” 

Talk in plain English to me, young man, and not in 
riddles, if you please,” she says, turning from me, and 
seating herself in her old position before the fire. 

"'Very well; I will speak plainly,” I say, seeing that is 
the only way. "AVe have reason to believe that Oni 
Gray is not your child, but that she is the daughter of 
very wealthy parents. You can never regain possession 
of her- that is utterly impossible; but you may receive a 
large reward, if what we think proves true. You may 
take your choice, but, in any case, remember that you 
will never see her again.” 

" I don't care nothin' about seein' her again,” hashes 
out the old witch, " except to give her a good floggin' for 
her runaway, and,” she adds/%under her breath, " to 
keep my oath.” 

"You cannot keep your oath,” I say, "if it was to 
keep her always with you, for she is now where she will 
stay, and where she will receive protection. You can- 
not keep your oath, if it was to keep her from her pa- 
rents, for she is by her mother's side this moment.” 

She starts up, seizes me by the arm, then releases me 
as spasmodically as she has caught me, and breaks into a 
low, hoarse laugh, which resembles the croaking of a 
crow. 

"No doubt you think you are very smart, young 
man,” she says, harshly, " but you don't fool me. Her 
mother, indeed!” 

" I can prove to you that she is with her mother, 
Veronique Vegas, after whom she was named,” I say, 
slowly, and with emphasis. 

. The hag’s face turns gray, and she looks at me without 
speaking. 


om. 




You know, of course, that Louise Drayton is dead,*^ 
I say, as she remains silent. 

"‘We had not heard of her for years. I supposed she 
was dead,"’ says the old woman, the words seeming to 
come from her almost involuntarily. 

“She made a confession before she died, exonerating 
Mrs. Wilton, or Veronique Couppia, from any relation- 
ship but that of friendship with her brother Paul Dray- 
ton. She also told how she had impersonated my 
father’s wife 

“ She did that, did she?” says Mrs. Gray, rising to her 
feet again. “Then she was as false to him as all the 
rest. Paul Drayton was my sister’s child, and he was the 
hope and pride of us all, but that woman ruined him, 
curse her.” 

She bends forward and hisses rather than speaks the 
last words, with a venom of which it would seem that a 
woman should be incapable. 

“What did she do to him?” I say, kindly, knowing 
full well that to become angry will acconiplish nothing. 
“ She received him into her house as his sister’s guest. 
She was kind to him for his sister’s sake, and because she 
was a beautiful and entertaining as well as kind-hearted 
woman, is that a reason that your nephew should have 
ruined all her life and put her into a lunatic asylum! 

“She is there, is she?” says the crone, savagely. “ I 
thank God for that! There is some justice in the world 

after all.” rr.-, -i 

“She is not in the asylum now. The return of her 

daughter has restored her reason.” 

She draws back and presses her thin lips closely to- 

^ “ Let me tell you your position, Mrs, Gray,” I continue. 

1 “ If you will give up what proof you have of Oni’s iden- 
' tification, you will receive a large sum of money from her 
wealthy relatives. If you refuse you can do no good, 
either to yourself or any one else. She is with her 
mother and sister and there she will remain. We only 
want positive proof of her identity on account of the 
property, and even that can lie arranged through a will 
or deed of gift. You see you injure nobody but yourself 

when you refuse.” , „ i 

“ He said I did wrong to come here,” she says, speak- 


184 ’ ONl 

ing to herself, "'hut I was headstrong and would listen 
to nothin\^^ 

She interlaces her bony fingers and stands in deep 
thought for some minutes. 

It caift hurt him now!'’ she murmurs to herself al- 
most pathetically. 

She turns, and going to a dusty old hair trunk, takes 
a key from her pocket and opens it. 

She takes out a much worn tray and then removes a 
little white muslin frock, daintily trimmed with blue rib- 
bons. Then a blue sash, some little slippers, a pair of 
silk stockings, some little lace skirts and last a tiny gold 
locket. 

We open the locket and find inside a miniature of the 
child's mother, unmistakably correct in every detail. 

The old woman's lips quiver a trifle as we receive the 
‘ things from her, but she quickly suppresses any evidence 
of emotion. 

"That is all," she says, in a grating voice, "except 
that he told me her name was Veronique Vegas." 

" I will send you or bring you a sum of money for this, 
which will satisfy you," I say. 

" Keep your money," she says, doggedly. "It can't 
make my poor boy's revenge complete. It can't give him 
back his youth and hope. It can't make of him the 
clever, happy lad he was. It can't bring him back to 
life again." 

" He is dead then?" I question, pitying her sorrow. 

" Dead!" her old eyes growing suspiciously bright. 
"Yes. He died as he lived, like a dog. She ruined 
his life, she made of him a drunkard, a murderer and a 
thief. Go away, go away," — almost shrieking — "and 
don't come here, again talking of money until you can 
buy back for me his sobriety, his innocence, his honor, 
and his life. If you want to repay me, find his murderer 
and bring him to the gallows. Hang him upon a scaffold 
as high as Haman's stood and I shall fall down and call 
you blessed." 

She seems to grow inches taller in her terrible anger. 

" He was murdered then?" I question, more to soothe 
her than from any desire to know. 

Foully murdered, stabbed to the heart, in the glen 
near Wilton Grange,” she says, fiercely. 


ONI, 


185 


I cry, in surprise. Paul Drayton was 

^^Kalph Dalton,” she says, throwing her long, lank 
arms over her head, and sinking in a heap upon the floor, 
^‘They were one and the same.” 


^ CHAPTER XXXVIL 

Howakd^s had been the hand to slay the man who had 
so wronged his mother! 

I cannot get that thought out of my head. 

How curiously things turn around in this big old 
world, 

I could easily forgive him his act, had he known Ralph 
DaltoiPs crime; but there is no excuse to be found under 
the circumstances that exist. 

We leave the poor old woman to her grief and go away, 
knowing she would will it so. 

My father is very quiet and very pale. 

Jack,” he says to me when we are at home again, 

it has always seemed to me that you know more of that 
murder in the glen than you have ever told to me. Will 
you tell me now?” 

^^You are right, father,” I answer; do know more 
of it than I shall ever tell to any one until I .can prove 
my words. Hot that I think you would doubt me, but I 
must have positive, incontrovertible proof of my asser- 
tions before I make them. Even then I shall hesitate.” 

He says no more, and seems to shrink from asking me 
further questions, intuitively divining in some vague way 
what I would say. 

It is too late for us to catcb the train for Hew York that 
night, and we are compelled to wait until the morrow. 

It will be a long night and day for us, but there is no 

help for it. i • n 

I decide to pass my time that evening in making a call 
upon Father McOlarty, to ascertain if there was any mis- 
take about the assertions made in court by the girl who 
claimed to be Howard’s wife. 

Justice must be done to her. 

It is all true, her statement of the affair being fully cor- 
roborated by the priest. 

I spend some time in talking to him, and telling him 


ONI. 


186 

of my last narrow escape, and it is something like nine 
o^clock when I take my leave. . , , . , 

The moon is not bright, hut the night is clejjr and the 
stars shed faint, pale rays upon the earth. 

My walk is partly through a dense wood, with only a 
footpath for travelers, the woods ending in a pricipice on 
one side of more than two hundred feet deep. 

Large projecting, sharp rocks mark the edge, and below 
is a clear, smooth wagon road. 

From the footpath, near the edge of the woods, the 
jagged rocks are plainly to be seen, and it forms a beau- 
tiful, rugged picture in the faint light of the night. 

Some night-bird shrieks wildly and flaps its wings just 
above my head, and it is with a feeling of awe, almost 
approaching superstition, that I hurry along, anxious to 
reach home again. 

The road I have selected by which to return leads me 
across the bridge above the old mill, where my brother 
first stained his soul with crime. 

I had not thought of that until now, and a shudder 
passes over me which leaves me cold and sick. 

The feeling is horrible, and I cannot shake it from me. 
It is not fright, but a nervous dread of something not of 
this world. I am no spiritualist; far from it! but I can- 
not explain my own apprehension to myself. 

I am disgusted at my own timidity, which is certainly 
a newly- acquired trait, and I laugh aloud, but the sound 
of my voice dies as if in hollow mockery, and I shiver 
anew as an echo of its emptiness reaches me. 

My cigar has lost its flavor, and I toss it away and 
stride along rapidly in silence, not caring even for the 
company of my own whistle on account of its unnatural 
sound. 

A few moments of quick walking brings me in sight of 
the mill. 

The low, gurgling splash of the water, as it falls over 
the unlocked dam, sounds like far-away, weird music. 

The ruins of the mill itself, the rotten old bridge, the 
calm, peaceful water above, the banks of dense trees and 
undergrowth on either side, lighted dimly by the fire of 
the heavenly fagots, make a picture which no artist 
could ever reproduce. 

I pause agaiu and gaze at the tall, ghost-like trees^ nod- 


ONI 


1^7 


tllng witli sepnlcliral politeness to each other, I notice 
again the tangled undergrowth which Avould seem to defy 
the feet of man or beast, but be the hospitable habitation 
of the unreal. 

AVith a smothered imprecation upon myself for my 
stupid, idle fancies, 1 once more hurry along, and pres- 
ently am upon the decaying planks of the old bridge. 

I hastily throw my eyes over the scene, and there, 
crouched in the center, just above the steps which lead 
to the bottom, is undoubtedly the figure of a man. 

At first, in my distorted imagination, I think it must 
be one of those ghosts which have been troubling me ma- 
terialized, and I involuntarily put my hand upon my hip- 
pocket to see that my pistol is safe, in case the materi- 
alization should require a bullet, then I cautiously 
approach nearer. 

He is sitting upon the top step with his knees in his 
embrace, his wild, glaring, hungry eyes raised to the 
stars, his face the color of marble. 

I look at him for some moments before I recognize my 
brother Howard. 

For a moment I forget everything but his changed ap- 
pearance and what can be the cause of his strange pres- 
ence here. 

Then the memory of my revenge comes back to me. i 
will take no advantage of him. I will warn him of my 
presence, and then it is a question of which is the better 
man of the two. 

Even as I look at him, thinking of my wrongs, I can- 
not prevent a sort of chicken-hearted pity for hiswretch- 
. edness and sin, but I crush it out, and, advancing to- 
ward him, I call his name. 

Howard!” . . 

He neither looks at me nor changes his position in any 

way. 

Howard!” I repeat. 

Still he gazes at the sky, and seems to be oblivious ot 

my presence. t i i ^ • 

I put my hand upon his shoulder and shake him. 

If there is anything of a man left in you,” I say, 
fiercely, get up and let it show itself. Stand up and 
defend yourself, for I mean to kill you.” n 

As I cease speaking he does not change his attitude. 


om. 


18 ^ 

but his lips begin to move. At first the sound is in- 
audible, but it gradually grows loud enough for me to 
hear. 

The water roars, roars until it sounds like a human 
voice. It speaks to me, but the articulation is indistinct 
and I cannot understand. I wonder what it says! I 
wonder if it is God or the devil who is calling me!” 

He ceases speaking, but still retains his position un- 
changed. 

I look at him in disgust. He knows my purpose and 
is shamming. And yet his marble- like face holds me 
spellbound. 

Then he begins to speak again. 

His voice is even more changed from its old, musical, 
careless drawl, than his face from its dark beauty. 

I did not push her, she tried to cling to me and fell. 
Fell headlong into the dark, cold, cruel waters, and the 
temptation came to me to let her drown. The voices in 
the air shrieked out their wild words, ‘ Let her drown, let 
her drown, let her drown !^ The water spoke more plainly 
then than now, and its cry was, ^ She is mine, I will hold 
her forever, and she will trouble you no more!' Ten 
thousand devils chained me to the spot. The roar of the 
waters deadened her frightful cries, and I saw her beau- 
tiful, agonized face as it disappeared over that unlocked 
dam. The cry of the water, the wail of the wind 
changed, and every devil shrieked out the one word — 
‘ Murderer!' I saw her pretty, dead face upon the rocks, 
and my heart burst and my brain seemed to reel, but I 
stood like one of the rocks on which she lay and watched 
her. People said something about suicide, but her dead 
eyes looked into my soul and cried out: ^You are my 
murderer! damned, damned forever in this world and 
the next!' ” 

He drops his eyes, and seems then to gaze off into the 
trees along the banks of the stream. 

He is there,” he goes on, watching me. He knows 
my crime, he will hang me, hang me!” 

He puts his hands to his throat as though to loosen 
something that was strangling him, a frightful gurgling 
sound in his throat, and then continues: 

He shall not! shall not! I will live my life in this 
world, for I am afraid of the next. I am afraid of God, 


om. 


1^9 


1 am afraid of fhe devil! What matters one more crime? 
I cannot be hurled deeper into the fire of the infernal re- 
gions.” 

He seems to look around as though he dreaded the ap- 
pearance of another person upon the scene. He puts his 
clinched hand to his mouth and shrinks back, then his 
eyes rest upon me. 

Larger and larger they grow, blazing and almost blind- 
ing in their unnatural brilliancy. With a blood-curdling 
yell like some wild animal he leaps to his feet and stands 
before me. 

For the first time I realize that my vengeance is 
averted, but God has kept his promise and taken it in his 
own hands. For the first time I realize that Howard 
has been stricken with the malady which blighted his 
mothers life for years. For the first time I realize it 
— my brother is mad ! 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

I HAVE never seen a madman in a frenzy in my life, 
but I have heard wonderful accounts of their strength, 
which would almost amount to the miraculous. 

' That Howard intends violence is plainly shown by the 
fierce, glaring light in his eyes, and I try to think how 
best to cope with him, injuring him as little as I can. 

He does not make the spring upon me which I have 
expected, but stands regarding me like a tiger over his 
prey. 

You have come, have you?” he hisses through his set 
teeth. You want to see me commit a murder, do you? 
Well, you shall be a victim also. I have murder upon 
my hands, and the whole earth cries aloud, ^ Blood, 
blood, blood!’ ” 

He breaks into a wild, fiendish, demoniacal laugh, 
which IS more horrible than his yell has been. 

‘^1 made you a thief, didn’t I?” he continues, after 
his frightful mirth had subsided. I told you I would 
do it, but you only sneered and defied me; but you know 
now. It would have been all right if she had not 
seen me, curse her. I mean to kill you, and then I shall 
kill her, for I hate her, I hate yon, and I hate the whole 
world!” extending his arms, and laughing aloud again. 


ONI 


lOo 

‘aiowarcl/^ 1 say, my voice trembliog with emotion, 

1 am very sorry for you. Come home with me, will you 
not? Fatlier is there, and father loves you.’’ 

He looks wistfully at me for a moment, then changes 
his expression, and says, fiercely: 

"‘You think you will have the advantage of me there, 
do you? Well, I will not go. Do you hear? I will not 
go! But you shall, when they carry you there as they did 
her long ago. You shall die as she did, and then I will 
cry aloud to the world, ' I did it, and I defy you all!’ Are 
you ready?” 

“ Howard,” I say, soothingly, “ remember you cannot 
hurt me by throwing me into that water. I would only 
swim ashore, and that would be the end of it. Come 
with me, will you not? and let us go home.” 

“ Swim ashore!” he repeats. Don’t you know there 
is no shore? Don’t you know that that water extends 
for millions of miles into illimitable space, and that 
chains and demons will haul you to the bottom? That,” 
pointing to it, “ is the river of death, and I am the 
Reaper who gathers the harvest in.” 

After all, it may be better to let him throw me in, for 
though I shall have a tough fight with the under-current, 
still it might be worse with him. 

I will try persuasion once more. 

“ I am not afraid of the water, Howard,” I say, gently, 
“and you may pitch me in if you like, but I wish you 
would remember how fond we were of each other when 
we were boys, and come home with me.” 

He utters a sneering oath, and says: 

“ Why do you speak to me as if I were a child? Not 
afraid of the water, eh? Very well, then, it shall not be 
the water. You think I am your inferior m strength. I 
tell you every fiend in the lower regions could not cope 
with me now. My brain is on fire, my pulses thrill, and 
only my heart is dead. Pray to that Cod who rules the 
universe, for even He has commanded me to kill you!^’ 

“The last words rise to a shrill scream, and, making 
one bound, he leaps upon me, 

I fight with the desperation of madness. 

My life, my young life is at stake, and it never looked 
so bright or so beautiful and promising to me before as 
now, when it is in such jeopardy. 


ONI. 


191 


We are both experienced boxers, in an amateur way, 
and every swinging blow or trick that he has ever learned 
or seen seems to return to him, and, whereas I have 
always been able to easily knock him out, I find great 
difiiculty now in being simply on the defensive. 

When he makes the first spring at me, we grapple, and 
he tries his utmost to throw me, but I manage to retain 
my feet, and then I make a desperate effort to throw 
him, but I might as well undertake to upset a brick wall. 

Then he breaks away from me. 

I fail to stop a swinging left-hander sent full in my 
face, and he follows it up with a right, but I give him a 
hot countering reminder which makes him wince. 

Still he seems to be a block of marble. 

The blow which I have given upon the body, seems to 
madden him even more. 

He makes a feint with his left, then with the quick- 
ness of lightning, shoots out his right with such sledge 
hammer force, that I tumble all in a heap, a clear knock 
known. 

Then he disregards all rules and Jumps upon me with 
both feet. 

I catch him by the legs and throw him forward upon 
his face, but he regains his feet as quickly as I do and 
we clinch again. 

He has the strength of an ox and seems to feel a blow 
no more than a granite wall would. 

For the first time I find that he is immeasurably my 
superior. I try in every way to dodge his blows, seeing 
it is impossible to ward them off, but with the quickness 
of insanity, he seems to divine my every move. 

Finally, with a fiendish curse he seizes me by the throat 
and holds me as firmly as though I were a little child. 
He sways my body like a reed in the wind, and I realize 
that the time has^ome when I must defend my life by 
taking anotheFs. 

It is horrible to me, knowing his mental condition, but 
til ere is no time to lose as I feel myself growing faint and 
weak. 

I cease trying to loosen his iron grasp, but drawing my 
pistol quickly, I make ready to shoot. 

He sees the flash of the steel barrel in the dim night 
light, and Avith cat-like quickness he leaps aside, and 


103 


ONI. 


catching my arm, throws it up, and the shot goes into the 
air. 

Seeming to be in some strange way influenced by the 
sound of the revolver’s explosion he leaps in the air, 
utters a loud, wild cry and makes a dash for the bank. 

I must not lose sight of him in the condition he is in, 
and I follow as rapidly as my almost exhausted condition 
will allow. 

He reaches the bank and breaks into what seems to be 
almost impenetrable undergrowth, and I pursue him. 

He goes along with the speed of the wind, not feeling 
the scratch of the briars or the occasional slap in the face 
administered by a hanging bough of a tree. 

I follow at a headlong rate, occasionally falling pros- 
trate, but getting up again and hurrying along as before, 
until at last I lose ail trace of him. 

I try diligently to follow any path he may have made, 
even to discover the broken or parted undergrowth, but 
it looks as if the earth had opened and swallowed him. 

There is nothing for me to do but to retrace my steps. 

I pause and look around me. 

Everything seems strange and unreal to me. 

I look about more carefully, then aim to return to the 
bridge. 

I have only proceeded a few yards, when to my chagrin 
I find that I have lost my way. 

The trees here are so dense as to almost entirely ob- 
struct what little light the stars afford, and I cannot 
even find my way back to the spot where I lost Howard. 

My position is decidedly not a pleasant one. 

The air is growing chill, and I have no overcoat with 
me, which adds to my discomfort. 

I push on, feeling that it is better to walk even in the 
^^road which leads to nowhere” than remain in the posi- 
tion in which I now am. ^ 

The silence would be tomb-like, save for the occasional 
shrill scream of a night bird, the. hoarse hooting of an 
owl, and the breaking of the bushes under my feet. 

Presently I come to a place where the undergrowth is 
not quite so thick, almost a small clearing, in fact, and I 
determine that I may as well rest there until morning, 
when I will have light enough to be able to see, at all 
events, ‘ 


ONI. 


193 


I am beginning to feel a trifle sore, after my encounter 
with Howard, and my clothes are pretty badly torn by 
the briars. 

I seat myself upon a large rock, brace my back against 
the trunk of a tree, button my coat tightly round me, 
turn up the collar, make myself as comfortable as circum- 
stances will allow, and prepare to pass the remainder of 
the night. 

Ugh! I wish I were safely back in dear old Hew York. 

I am awfully tired. 

I wonder if father will be worried about my not return- 
ing home? We have been together so much recently 
that he has become as anxious over me as a woman would 
be. 

I think I go to sleep then, for I have strange weird 
fancies which must be dreams. 

Suddenly I start up and rub my eyes. 

I have a painful presentiment that all is not well, and 
as i look round to remember where I am, I hear a sound 
which makes my blood run cold, placed as I am in al- 
most utter darkness. 

It is the ominous sound of a rattlesnake! 

I recognize the sound at once, and leap to my feet. I 
cannot tell from which direction the noise proceeds, so I 
place my back against the enormous trunk of the tree to 
avoid attack from the rear and wait. 

The sound is repeated again, and I draw my revolver, 
then strike a match. 

Directly ]n front of me I see the long, slimy head and 
glittering, bead-like eyes of the serpent. Its forked tongue 
is moving rapidly, its head is raised, and its body coiled, 
ready to strike. 

Quickly I raise my revolver and fire. 

My shot takes effect, but does not do the deadly work 
that I desire. 

The reptile uncoils, and my match goes out. 

I fumble in my pocket for another, for my eyes, accus- 
tomed to its faint light, can see nothing by that of the 
stars. 

I find it at last, and strike it. 

Again I see the old snake coiled and ready for me. Be- 
fore I can raise my pistol, it throws its sleek head forward, 
but I spring aside just in time to avoid the deadly blow, 


194 


ONI. 


At the same moment I discharge my revolver again, and 
once more am left in darkness. , , , , i i. 

I try to find another match to be able to see the efl:ect 
of my second shot, but I have used them all and can see 

perfectly still, afraid to more— almost to 

1 ^ 1*0 

I am an excellent shot, but my aim has been next to 
nothing, and I have no idea of its result. 

I listen intently for any sound which may warn me ot 
the movements of my inhospitable entertainer, but can 

hear nothing. , i i i 

After a time my eyes become accustomed to the dark- 
ness again, and very carefully I look around me, almost 
feeling my way. 

At last I find it dead, thank God! 

I always had a distinct horror of reptiles, particularly 
rattlesnakes, and a shudder passes over me as 1 realize how 
that encounter might have ended. 

I decide that I would feel infinitely more comfortable 
a trifle higher up, consequently I pocket my friendly re- 
volver, which has stood by me so well to-night, and climb 
the tree. 

It is not the most delightful position in the world,, but 


still I am grateful for it. 

There is no more sleep for me. The hours drag like 
weeks, and it is with a feeling of joy that I see the red 
light of morning appear in the east. 

When I can see clearly, I descend from my perch and 
try to make a more exhaustive examination of my situa- 
tion, and if possible find my way home. 

I see my late antagonist lying at the foot of the tree, 
shot through the neck. I cut off the rattles, which num- 
ber thirteen, to preserve as a trophy, and start on my ex- 
pedition. 

I wander around for about an hour, and then, on look- 
ing about pie for any landmarks, I find that I am exactly 
at the point I started from that morning. 

Somewhat discouraged, I try again, and after numer- 
ous falls and many unpleasant scratches, I find myself at 
the edge of the woods. 

I don’t think I ever felt such gratitude to God in my 


ONI. 


105 

life; for though I am far from being a coward, still the 
night had been anything but an agreeable one. 

I am not long in reaching home. 

My father is on the lawn, his kind oPd face as anxious 
as my mother's would be. 

Jack," he says, where upon earth have you 
been? You look as if you had been drunk, and the dogs 
iiad had hold of you." 

We go in, and, while I have some breakfast, I tell him, 
in as gentle a manner as I can, my night's experience and 
the awful judgment that has befallen my brother. 

His head droops forward upon his folded hands, and, 
with tears streaming from his eyes, he brokenly murmurs 
one word: 

^^*Retribution!" 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

WHEif I have finished my breakfast we collect all the 
male servants, and as many of the neighbors as we can 
get together, and start out to search for my unfortunate 
brother. 

We separate as we reach the woods, dividing our num- 
ber into three parties, each party provided with an old 
country dinner-horn with which to give the signal in case 
any trace of him is found. 

It is quite late in the day, and we have been on the 
tramp for a number of hours, and are about to give up 
until the following day, as the men are all tired and 
hungry, and the gloaming will be upon us soon. 

I, for one, have no fancy for another night in the woods. 

I have tried to persuade father to remain at home, but 
he insists upon joining us, declaring that if any one is 
unfit it is I. But I could not rest at home even if I had 
tried. 

I am the one who proposes the adjournment until the 
morning. 

But he may die if left another night in the woods," 
says my father, his lips quivering pitifully. Remember 
your own adventure, and think what will become of him 
if left alone with nothing to defend himself." 

What is that over there?" I question, as I see the out- 
line of some object through the dense trees. 


196 


ONL 

Why that must be Jim Otis^ old deserted shanty, 
says one of the men, peering in the direction I have indi- 
cated. 

If it is there used to be a path through there some- 
Avhere. AVe might see any way. 

Accordingly we push on a little way further, and, as he 
has said, we can soon distinctly see the little log cabin, 
which, impossible as it would seem from its appearance, 
has once been a habitation. 

AVe approach it, and I look through a hole which served 
as a window. 

I shall never forget the sight I saw. 

The cabin was simply made of rough, unhewn logs, 
without plastering or covering of any kind upon the waUs 
save the heavy growth of moss which gives it a "romantic, 
if decidedly unhealthy, look. 

Bird^s nests, which look as though they had been built 
hundreds of years, hung from the rafters, a huge hornet^s 
nest is suspended from the upper side of the wall, and 
big-eyed owls blink in the waning light of day. 

Face forward upon the floor, his clothing torn almost 
entirely from his body, lies my poor demented brother. 

Every feeling save pity has left my heart for him. 

The others see as well as 1, and we approach the door 
almost in silence. 

Cautious as we are not to disturb him, his quick ear 
catches the sound of our footsteps. 

He starts up, and seeming to realize that we will take 
him away, he springs to his feet, and before any of us can 
divine his intention he dashes by us, and, with the fleet- 
ness of a deer, he is off into the woods, uttering again 
those wild, frightful cries I have heard the night before. 

The men stand and look at each other in terrifled as- 
tonishment. His flight is so unexpected that even I do 
not put out a hand to stay him. 

‘‘ For God’s sake, neighbors, do not leave that poor boy 
in that condition to roam the woods all night,” says my 
father, beseechingly. 

They need no further urging. 

AVith renewed zeal we go on, pausing now and then to 
try to find the trail, then hurrying again as we notice how 
rapidly the night is closing in. 


ox I 19 t 

Presently we hear a faint, long blast from one of the 
horns. 

'' They have found him/^ I say; but from what direc- 
tion does the sound come?’^ 

The men pause and listen. 

^^ This way, I think,” says the most experienced man 
01 the party. 

We follow him for some time in silence, then pause 
again and blow a blast from our own horn. 

It is quickly answered, and we know we are on theridit 
track. ^ 

Repeating this many times, we finally come upon the 
party just at the beginning of the old bridge above the 
mill-dam. 

^^He passed over the bridge like the wind,” says one of 
the men as we join them, ^^and took the path up the 
other side.” 

Without waiting to hear more we go rapidly along, and 
as I near the precipice a horrible feeling takes possession 
of me. 

Not communicating my fears to any one, I rush hastily 
along, and peer over its side. 

Dimly I see some dark object below 

I call one of the men to me. 

"^Do you see anything?” I ask briefly, and in alow 
tone. 

He gazes down as I have done. 

Yes,” he says; there is a heap of something. There 
is a road down there, just over yonder. We will go and • 
see.” 

Without being told, the men seem to feel what we 
think, and follow us in silence. 

It is a perilous descent that we make, even though we 
find the road of which the nian has spoken, but no one 
seems to shrink from it. 

We find the spot where we have seen the dark object, 
and there, mangled so as to be almost unrecognizable, we 
find Howard. 

His arm and both legs are broken, his hands are 
scratched and bruised, and blood is flowing from a num- 
ber of cuts upon his face and head. 

I quickly catch father by the shoulders and turn his 
back to the friglitful sight. 


198 


ONL 

“ Do not look,” I say, with a sob in my throat. “ It 

is too horrible!’^ . i ’ 

He pushes me gently aside, and turns to his son. 

He neither faints, nor cries out, but stands staring m 
dumb agony, which cuts me to the heart. His face is as 

pale as death and his lips set firmly. v v. 

T'he men cj^uickly improvise a rude stretchei with limbs 
of trees, and we all remove our coats and lay them upon 
it to make it as comfortable as possible, then very gently 
they lift the poor bruised body upon it. 

r force father to lean upon me, and the others carry 
Howard, while we follow the wagon- road home. 

It is quite dark when we arrive there and find a physi- 
cian, for whom one of the servants with us had gone, 
awaiting us. 

As tenderly as though he were their own, the nieii 
carry my brother to the sunny front chamber up-stairs, 
and under the doctor’s directions undress and place him 
in bed. 

Then fearful of being intrusive they withdraw and re- 
turn to their own homes. 

Very carefully the doctor examines and dresses his 
wounds, while I stand by, assisting all in my power. 

You think the wounds are fatal, doctor?” I ask, 
noting his anxious, solemn air. 

Undoubtedly,” he answers. ‘‘The broken bones, 
though there are a number of them, would not necessa- 
rily prove fatal, but he has received. internal injuries, and 
the cuts on his head are terrible.” 

“ Do you think he will ever regain consciousness?” I 
ask, feeling a sorrow which I would not have believed 
possible. 

“I cannot tell,” he answers, solemnly. 

“ If he does will he be liable to be rational?” 

I have already told him of Howard’s demented con- 
dition. 

“That is possible, still I cannot assert positively.” 

I hope he will, I pray that he will, for I want the 
poor, unfortunate fellow to know that I fully and freely 
forgive him. 

My father insists that the doctor shall remain with us, 
and I am glad he has consented, for, toward morning, 
Howard shows symptoms of returning consciousness. 


ONI. 


Vjj 


He tosses about considerably, wbicli the physician tries 
to prevent. 

As I bend over him to quiet him if possible, I hear him 
murmur the name. 

“OuVN 

The doctor hears also. 

Does he sleep, do you think?’^ I ask of him. 

He shakes his head in the negative. 

Howard, I say, gently, do you want to see Oni?’^ 

He opens his eyes for the first time and they rest upon 
my face. 

Yes,^^ he answers, but so faintly that I have almost 
to put my ear to his mouth to hear, ^^and Enid.^^ 

I will send for both, at once,^^ I say, reassuringly. 

I communicate his desire to my father, and we send a 
messenger at once with a telegram to each of them, also 
to one of the most celebrated of Hew York physicians. 

Then I return to Howard. 

As I take my seat beside him, he smiles faintly, and 
makes an effort to put out his uninjured hand to me. 

I take it in mine and press it. 'He smiles again and 
closes his ^yes. I think he sleeps. 

Very quiet we sit, lest we disturb him, and he remains 
motionless for hours. 

It is morning when he begins to move uneasily again, 
and the doctor does what he can to make him comfort- 
able. 

He raises his eyes to me again. 

^^Did you send?’^ he questions, still faintly, but some- 
what stronger than he has spoken before. 

Yes,^’ I answer. 

Tliere is another question in his eyes, but I answer it, 
without compelling him to put it in words. 

We have not had an answer to the telegram, but I 
am sure they will come.’’^ 

They may not be in time,^^ he says, slowly. 

^^Oh, yes, they will,^^ I answer, as cheerfully as I can. 

You must not think that you are going to die, for we 
donT intend to allow it." 

He smiles pitifully. 

You forgive?" he asks, softly. 

Everything is forgotten, except how we used to love 


ONI. 


m 

each other when we were hoys/^ I say, trying to swallow 

the lump in my throat, i ^ . x. i. t 

A little of the old spirit comes back to his tace, but i 
think his attempt at playfulness is the saddest thing I 

ever heard. ^ 

‘^That is the "parson" in you,"" he articulates, with 
difficulty. ""I should hate you, even in ynur grave— if 
you had — done — it — to me."" \ ^ 

""You see I always loved you too well to quite hate 
you,’" I say, with a smile, though my eyes are so dim 
that I cannot see him. 

He does not try to answer, hut smiles in return, and 
closes his eyes again. . . 

It is not until the following morning that Oni, Enid, 
and the New York doctor arrive upon the sanie train. 

AVe prepare the girls as much as possible for the 
change in him, while the physician. Dr. Holland, goes 
up to see if his skill can accomplish anything. 

Then I go up. 

Dr. Holland shakes his head, regretfully, in answer to 
my look of inquiry. 

"" There is no hope, none at all,"" he says to me aside. 
"" I hardly think he can live an hour. If you have any- 
thing to say to him, say it quickly, for he is even now 
dying."" 

Much as I am prepared, the announcement is a dread- 
ful shock to me, but I must bear it for his sake. 

""Howard,"" I say, advancing to his bed, when I can 
command my voice, "" Oni and Enid are here. Will you 
see them now?"" 

"" Yes,” he gasps, a faint color coming to his cheeks, 
and a glad light in his eyes. 

I open the door and admit them. 

Oni is horror-stricken at his terrible appearance, band- 
aged and ill-looking as he is, and with her characteristic 
impulsiveness, she goes quickly forward and kisses him 
upon the forehead. 

Tears come into his eyes, hut he does not speak. 

Then he looks around for the other girl, for whom he 
has asked — his wife! 

She stands in the center of the room, her'hands clasped 
tightly, her face even paler than his own. 

There; is a wild, frightened look in her eyes, and 


ONI. 


m 


tliongh slie utters no cry she sways, and would have fallen, 
but that I catch Jier in my arms. 

She seems to recover herself after that momentary 
weakness, and crossing to his bedside, she kneels beside 
him. 

Oh, Howard, my darling, she sobs, forgive me! 
It was I who brought you to this.” 

'^Don^t say that,” he sajs, feebly, placing his un- 
maimed hand upon her bowed head. It was my own 
evil deeds. You forgive me, Enid?” 

I have nothing to forgive,” she says, brokenly. 

And you, little sister?” he says to Oni. 

The only harm you ever did me amounted to noth- 
ing, after all,” she says, her tears falling fast. 

I tried to make the man you love appear a thief,” he 
says, with difficulty, ^^and— I — killed — Kalph Dalton — 
in the — glen.” 

I shall never forget the look of absolute horror and al- 
most despair in Oni^s eyes. 

You!” she says, almost fiercely. 

Remember, he is dying!” I say to her in a low voice. 

‘‘^To save myself!” he says, seeming to answer her, 

and I thought — I hated Jack — for — his — bravery.” 

Oh, Howard, Howard!” exclaims Oni, breaking 
down and covering her face with her hands. ^^ And you 
my brother, too.” 

^^Can you — not forgive?” he asks, and I have never 
seen such entreaty in any eyes. 

Then he seems to grow stronger. 

do not dare to ask forgiveness of God,” he con- 
tinues. Bold as I am, sin-steeped, I dare not! But 
you of earth, surely you can, now that I am dying.” 

^^If we can, why will not He?” says Enid, earnestly. 

Think, Howard, how much greater is His love than 
ours. Pray for His forgiveness, dear.” 

Still he continues to look earnestly, wistfully, plead- 
ingly at Oni. 

Are you sinless?” I say to her, sternly, that you can 
condemn and refuse a dying man^s prayer? Have you 
done no wrong for which you hope to be pardoned?” 

Her face changes and she places her little cool hand 
upon his almost cold forehead. 


202 


ONL 


Howard, dear brother,^" sbe says, gently, as I liope 
for pardon, I do forgive you!'' 

He holds out his one hand to me. 

Eaise me up. Jack," he says, affectionately. 

As carefully as I can I raise him and hold him in my 

arms. . t • 

There, that is right! I did not think to die in your 
arms, old fellow. It is happiness after all. You said 
you would kill me. You ought to have remembered God's 
words, ‘I will repay.' He averted your vengeance and 
took it in His own hands. I am— glad your soul— is not 
stained — with that crime. Father — I — can't see — you. 
Take — care — of my wife — my money — to her. Jack, 
where are you? Hold me! Tighter! tighter — I seem — to 
be slipping— away. Oh, Lord — be merci — ful — to me — 
sinner!" 

I lay him gently back upon his pillow and it is around 
Howard's lifeless body that we all kneel. 


CHAPTER XL. 

I AM alone in the library of Wilton Grange. ^ 

Howard lies in the old drawing-room upon his bier, and 
by his side his young wife sits. 

I leave them alone for the last time on this earth and 
come to the room where we have passed so many days to- 
gether in our happy boyhood. 

I am lonely and desolate, but very glad that his last 
words have been of affection toward me. lam glad that 
I have forgiven him and glad that he knows it. 

I sit with my elbow upon the writing desk, looking out 
over the lawn where we have played together as little in- 
nocent children, when I feel something at my side and 
almost at the same moment a little cold hand is slipped 
into mine. 

I look down and find Oni kneeling at my side. 

She bows her head and lays her pretty cheek upon my 
knee. 

^^How can I ever ask you to forgive me?" she says, 
softly. Teach me what words to say to show my con- 
tempt for my miserable self. Oh, how selfish and cold I 
have been! Think of my setting myself up to judge you. 


a wretched, ignorant thing like me.^ How you must 
despise me! But not more than I despise myself 

What are you talking about, Oni?” I say, lifting her 
up and placing her upon a sofa, and myself beside her. 

Do you think I blame you, child, when 1 look back and 
think of what you saw that day? Do you think that I 
could ever be unforgiving iov anything you might do after 
your noble self-sacrifice that day in the Gloucester court- 
room 

noble self-sacrifice r she repeats. ^‘And what 
were you dning? I did not intend to hurt my reputation 
that day. I never thought of their putting those ques- 
tions to me, and then I was afraid to say I had lied. So 
you see it was only cowardice upon my part, while you 
you were sacrificing your life for your brother ssin. And* 
I— oh. Heaven!—/ to believe you guilty of murder— you, 
a hero and a martyr!'^ 

^^My dear child,"Hsay, smiling at her absurdity, ‘^^you 
are speaking wildly. have no objection to your mak- 
ing a hero of me, but I don^t quite like the ^ martyr^ 
business. Even if I had chosen to accuse Howard, what 
proof had I? Consequently I did no more than you 
did.^^ 

‘^You may say what you like,'" she says, tearfully, 
^^but I know! See how poor Howard treated you just at 
the last. He knew how noble you had. been, and then 
your entire forgiveness of his every act, while I could only 
remember what he had made me do and say in my blind 
injustice, and I hesitated to pardon even that until you 
made me see my own selfishness. Oh, J ack !"-- very hum- 
bly_^^ I don't ask you ever to love me again; I know you 
couldn't do that, but I wish you would tell me that you 
don't quite hate me." 

I catch her in my arms and kiss her sweet, tremulous 


lips. 

^aiate you!" I echo. have loved you madl}^, de- 
votedlv, ever since that day when I first saw you with 
vour bonny head pillowed among those sweet woodland 
violets, and 1 think I love you more passionately now 
than ever before. Why, little darling, do you think 
anything could make, any dilference in my idolatry ot 
you?" 


204 


ONI. 


She nestles very closely up to me, and lays her head tim- 
idly against my shoulder. 

I think I should be unspeakably happy/^ she mur- 
murs, it were not for poor Howard.^"’ 

And I am egotist enough to believe that she is happy, 
notwithstanding our sorrow for our poor brother, which 
I know is exactly what he would wish now. 

We lay him to rest beside the only mother whose love 
and care he could remember, and I hope and believe that 
God heard that last despairing call for mercy. 

We four stand beside the little mound in the country 
churchyard — Oni, my father, the young wife who has 
never shrunk from him even through all the knowledge 
of his crimes, and myself. 

We do not go back to the Grange — it is too much as- 
sociated with sorrowful memories — but take the train for 
New York immediately after the funeral. 

My sister-in-law accompanies us by our express desire. 

We go at once to Oni^s home, and are given a most 
cordial welcome and a delightful breakfast, then we tell 
Dolores all that Howard has suffered. 

The two girls do not put on mourning for their brother, 
on account of the necessity of an explanation to their 
mother, and because of the delicacy of Jier health, yet we 
wish her to believe that Howard has been dead many 
years. 

She is as pleased as a little child to have father back, 
and it is really a pretty picture to see them together. 

It is Oni, Dolores, and I who persuade him that he is 
doing her an injury by having their second marriage 
postponed longer. 

He remonstrates, saying that he must show the proper 
amount of respect for my mother^s memory; but I urge 
him to do it, as I know my dear mother would be the last 
one to wish to stand in the way of his happiness. 

Of course he cannot withstand all our importunities, 
particularly where they coincide with his own desires. 

They have decided to be married within the month. 

Why can we not be married at the same time, Oni?^^ 
I say. Your little season of rest will be soon over now, 
and I want my wife before you are again before the pub- 
lic. I do wish you would give it up/^' 

, WhvlU Willi my name only half maclg? Ohj no, Mi\ 


ONI. 


205 


Selfishness! I shall do nothing of the kind. But you 
may come with me, if you like, and sing love songs.” 

"" No doubt you mean to be kind and most generous,” I 
say. But look at that!” 

With a little pardonable pride I draw a letter from my 
pocket, offering me the position of leading barytone in 
one of the most swell opera companies on the road. 

She reads it and laughs merrily. 

I dare say you do appreciate the lucrative position I 
have offered you, to say nothing of your prominence in 
the cast. Tell you what Til do. Jack. I have my con- 
tract signed for the fall, but if you are a success I will 
retire at the end of that time and rest upon my husband's 
laurels.” 

^^All right,” I say, kissing her charming face, raised 
so temptingly to mine. I suppose I shall have to be 
satisfied with that, but I shall not wait that long for my 
wife, understand.” 

And I shall not ask you to do so,” she says, shyly. 

We have been in the conservatory, but now we enter 
the library and I throw myself lazily into a big chair. 

As I do so, we hear voices in the adjoining room. 

I have never loved another woman in all my life as I 
do you, Dolores, and though I have no exalted position to 
ask you to share, though I am only a struggling actor, I 
do ask you to be my wife.” 

I am about to rise up and get away, make my presence 
known, or anything to keep from being an eavesdropper, 
for I recognize Bob Clifton's beautiful voice, but Oni 
throws her arm around my neck and puts her hand over 
my mouth. She seats herself upon the arm of my chair,' 
and putting her lovely face closely against mine, she 

whispers: ^ t i ^ 

Don't interrupt them for the world. 1 have so set 
my heart upon that marriage. They are just suited to 
each other. Listen!” 

And I do listen, I am ashamed to say. 

I hardly know what answer to make to you, Mr. Clif- 
ton ” says Dolores, gently. You^re too noble and too 
good to be content with less than a hearts entiie lo've. 
That I cannot give you yet. I have loved, deeply, truly, 
and the grave of that love is yet too green to be forgotten, 
or for the grief it caused to be stilled, I admiieand like 


206 


ONL 


you more than any man I have ever met, save that one, 
and if you will be satisfied with that until I can give you 
more, then I will promise to be your wife, for I am sure 
the rest will come in time/'’ 

Who can she mean?” replies Oni, looking at me much 
puzzled. 

I do not answer, because I can^’t think of any words. 

She understands. 

Oh, Jack!” she whispers, sorrowfully. 

Hush! Let us hear his answer,” I say, to change the 
subject. 

But it comes to us only in the sound of a kiss. 

Oni and I rise and steal away. 

As we enter the morning-rooni, we find a messenger 
awaiting me, bearing a note. 

I open it and read : 

My dear Jack,— I am sorry I was too ill to see you 
when you called, but I have just finished reading the ac- 
count you so kindly wrote me of poor Howard^s terrible 
death. I hope God has forgiven him as freely as I do for 
the wrong he has done me. 

I need not tell you how I loved him, for you know, 
and though I may have felt bitterly toward him for his 
treatment of me and his dishonorable conduct toward 
you, I love him still, and feel sure that he loved me, even 
though it was guilt and sin. Even that is a comfort to 
me. 

‘^^When time has more reconciled me to my loss and the 
^battered confidence in an idol, I shall be glad to meet 
nis widow. 

You, dear Jack, and the two girls must come to me 
as often as you can. Eemember me, with love, to Oni 
and Dolores. Always affectionately, 

'"Grace Melrose.” 


[the ehd.] 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 



[Unabridged Edition.] 


People’s Special Order List. 


1887 . 


Please send the following order of MUNRO’S LIBRARY: 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

No. 

75 — The Executor 

181 — Maid, Wife, or Widow? 

186 — The Wooing O’t 

195— Which Shall It Be ? 

374— A Second Life 

122 — At Bay 

-567 — Beaton’s Bargain 

568 — Look Before You Leap 

575 — The Heritage of Langdale 

577 — Ralph Wilton’s Weird 

-685— By Woman’s Wit 

MRS. LENOX BELL’S WORKS. 

93 — Not to be Won 

— 99 — Wife or Slave? 


Price. 
.. 20 

.. 10 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 10 
.. 20 


20 

20 


WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 


• 25— Yolande 20 

36 — A Princess of Thule 20 

.177_White Wings: A Yachting Romance 20 

238— Judith Shakespeare 20 

■459— White Heather 20 


MUNRO^S LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION. 


R. D. BLACKMORE'S WORKS. 

No. 

435 — Lorna Doone — Part I 

•436 — Lorna Doone— Part II 

437 — Remarkable History of Sir Thomas Upmore.. 

438 — Erema; or, My Father’s Sin 

-439 — Cradock Nowell — Part I 

-440— Cradock Nowell— Part II 

-441 — Christowell 

142 — Clara Vaughan 

-443— The Maid of Sker 

444 — Mary Anerley. 

445 — Alice Lorraine 

■446 — Cripps, the Carrier 

MISS. M. E. BRADDON'S WORKS. 

26— Lady Audley’s Secret 

66 — Aurora Floyd 

169 — The Octoroon 

175- Vixen 

193 — Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 

263— The Mistletoe Bough (Christmas, 1884)., 

344 — Diavola — Part I 

345— Diavola— Part II ” ” 1 ” 

346— Married in Haste, edited by Miss Braddon.*." 

347 — Put to the Test, edited by Miss Braddon 

348— Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 

349 — Rupert Godwin 

350 — Only a Clod 

351 — The Cloven Foot 

352— Only a Woman, edited by Miss Braddoii..!].] 

353 — The Lady’s Mile 

354 — Mount Royal 

356 — A Strange World 

357— Sir Jasper’s Tenant 

358— Strangers and Pilgrims T 

359 — The Doctor’s Wife ’ * 

360— Fenton’s Quest 

361— The Golden Calf V.V.V.V.V.V.V.V.V.V.V.*.;.’ 

362 — Hostages to Fortune 

363 — Birds of Prey 

364 — Charlotte’s Inheritance 

365— Just As I Am 

366 — Asphodel 

367 — Taken at the Mood . 

368 — Dead Men’s Shoes " 

369— J ohn Marchmont’s Legacy 

661~ Bough (Christmas, 1885) 

MISS BRONTE’S WORKS. 

41 — Shirley 

48 — Jane Eyre 


Prick. 

.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
. 20 
.. 20 
. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
20 

.. 20 


20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


20 

20 


MUNRO'S LIBRARY— POOi^ET EDITION. 

AMELIA B. EDWARDS’ WORKS. 

Price. 

67 — Barbara’s History 20 

563 — Miss Carew 20 

564 — My Brother’s Wife 20 

565— Hand and Glove 20 

MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS’ WORKS. 

600 — Jet; Her Face or Her Fortune 10 

601— A Ballroom Repentance 20 

602— A Point of Honor 20 

603— Ought We to Visit Her 20 

604— Leah : A W oman of Fashion 20 

605 — Archie Lovell 20 

606 — A Blue Stocking 10 

607 — Susan Fielding 20 

608 — A Vagabond Heroine 10 

609 — Philip Earnscliffe 20 

610 — Vivian the Beauty 10 

611 — Steven Lawrence 20 

620— A Playwright’s Daughter 10 

621— A Girton Girl 20 

GEORGE ELIOT’S WORKS. 

11 — Janet’s Repentance 10 

12 — Silas Marner .V. * lo 

13 — Felix Holt, the Radical 20 

14 — The Mill on the Floss 20 

15— Brother Jacob, and The Lifted Veil 10 

16 — Adam Bede 20 

17 — Romola 20 

18— Sad Fortunes of Rev. Amos Barton '.!!]]...!! 10 

19 — Daniel Deronda..., 20 

20 — Middlemarch 20 

21 — Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 10 

22 — The Spanish Gypsy 20 

23— Impressions of Theophrastus Such !!. 10 

EVA EVERGREEN’S WORKS. 

57 — Ten Years of His Life 20 

95— Agatha 20 

B. L. FARJEON’S WORKS. 

458— The Sacred Nugget 20 

479— Grif 20 

526 — Aunt Parker 20 

GERALDINE FLEMING’S WORKS. 

55 — False 20 

77 — A Sinless Crime 20 

80— Leola Dale’s Fortune * 20 


MUI^RO'S LIBRARY-POCKET EDINOK 

Geraldine Fleming’s Works-Continued. 

No. 

_ 85— AVho Was the Heir? 20 

- 92 — Only a Girl’s Love 20 

-1 23— Countess Isabel 10 

-150 — How He Won Her 10 

-302 — Sunshine and Gloom 20 

-315— A Sister’s Sacrifice 20 

-336 — A Terrible Secret.... 20 

-339— Slaves of the Ring 20 

-592— Entrapped 20 

OCTAVE FEUILLET’S WORKS. 

- 49— Romance of a Poor Young Man 10 

- 53— Led Astray, adapted by Helen M. Lewis 20 

LAURA C. FORD’S WORKS. 

-164— Enemies Born 20 

-211— Electra 20 

-212— For Honor’s Sake 20 

-307 — Daisy Darrell 20 

MRS. FORRESTER’S WORKS. 

-510— Dolores 20 

—511 — I Have Lived and Loved 20 

—512 — My Lord and My Lady 20 

-513— My Hero 20 

—514 — Fair Women 20 

-515 — Mignon 20 

—516 — Viva.... 20 

—517 — Diana Carew 20 

— 518— Rhona 20 

—519 — Roy and Viola 20 

—520— From Olympus to Hades 20 

- 521 — June, a Love Story 20 

—522 — Omnia Vanitas, a Tale of Society - 10 

—523— A Young Man’s Fancy, and otlier tales. 20 

—666— Once Again 20 

EMILE CABORIAU’S WORKS. 

- 29 — In Peril of His Life 20 

—172 — The Clique of Gold 20 

ANNIE A. GIBBS’ WORKS. 

—447— Irene 20 

—448 — The Waif of the Storm 20 

— 449 — The Forced Marriage 20 

—450— A Blighted Life 20 

— 451 — A Cruel Woman 20 

—452— Her Father’s Sin 20 


MUNRO'S LIBRARY-POCKET EDITION. 

Works by CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME. 

(AUTHOR OF “ DORA THORNE.”) 

No. Price. 

» ■■ 35 — Her Mothers Sin 10 

44 — Dora Thorne 20 

60 — Queen Amongst Women, and Between Two 

Sins 20 

61 — Madolin’s Lover 20 

70 — Thorns and Orange Blossoms 10 

120 — Romance of a Black Veil 10 

154 — Beyond Pardon 20 

187 — Which Loved Him Best ? 10 

191 — Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 

224 — Diana’s Discipline 20 

j 225 — Prince Charlie’s Daughter 10 

229— A Broken Wedding Ring 10 

244 — The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

245 — At War With Herself 10 

248 — From Out the Gloom 20 

249— Love’s Warfare 10 

262— A Willful Maid 20 

370 — Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce 20 

383 — Thrown on the World 20 

384 — The EaiTs Atonement 20 

385 — Under a Shadow 20 

423 — Her Martyrdom 20 

183 — Wife in Name Only 20 

484 — Repented at Leisure 20 

485 — Hilda 10 

486 — A Golden Heart 10 

487 — A Bitter Atonement 20 

488 — Between Two Loves 20 

489 — Evelyn’s Folly 20 

490 — ^A Woman’s Temptation 20 

491 — A Struggle for a Ring 20 

492 — Lady Darner’s Secret.. 20 

493— A Fair Mystery 20 

494 — Romance of a Young Girl 20 

659 — A True Magdalen 20 

• 667 — A Woman’s Error 20 

RHODA BROUGHTON’S WORKS. ' 

183 — Nancy 20 

475— Belinda 20 

532 — “Good-Bye, Sweetheart” 20 

533 — Red as a Rose is She 20 

534 — Cometh up as a Flower 20 

535— Not Wisely, But too Well 20 

536— Joan 20 

537 — Second Thoughts 20 

679— Pr. Cupid 20 


MUNRO'S LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION. 

ROBERT BUCHANAN’S V/ORKS. 

No. 

-145 — The New Abelard 

305— Matt 

386— The Shadow of the Sword 

387— God and Man 

388— The Martyrdom of Madeline 

389— Annan Water 

390— Love Me Forever 

470 — The Master of the Mine 


“JOHN BULL” BOOKS. 

170— John Bull and His Island, by Max O’Rell 10 

232— John Bull’s Neighbor 10 

246— John Bull’s Misfortunes, Camille Debans 10 

260— John Bull’s Daughters, by Max O’Rell 10 

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY’S WORKS. 

165— Not like Other Girls 20 

308— Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

466 — For Lilias 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

^176 — The New Magdalen 10 

197 — The Moonstone 20 

250 — The Queen of Hearts 20 

561— The Evil Genius 20 

-680— The Guilty River 10 


Prick. 

.. 10 
.. 10 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 20 
.. 10 
.. 20 


MABEL COLLINS’ WORKS. 


540 — Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter 20 

■623— The Prettiest Woman in Warsaw 20 


HUGH CONWAY’S WORKS. 


215— Called Back 10 

259 — Dark Days 10 

372 — Carriston’s Gift 10 

■ 375 — A Family A ff air 20 

433 — Slings and Arrows, etc 10 

434 — All in One 20 

453 — A Dead Man’s Face, etc 10 

525 — A Cardinal Sin 20 

571 — Living or Dead 20 

614 — Bound by a Spell 10 


J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

137 — The Heidenmauer 

258 — The Pathfinder 

306 — The Deerslayer 

311 — The Last of the Mohicans», 

■312 — The Pioneers 

•313— The Prairio ,.■, 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

^ 0 - 


MUNRO'S LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION. 

„ ANNABEL CRAY’S WORKS. 

No, Price 

lOB— What Love Will Do lo 

240 — Terribly Tempted 10 


EVELYN CRAY’S WORKS. 


— . — A Woman’s JFaiilt 20 

i05 — As Fate Would Have It 20 

MARY CRACE HALPINE’S WORKS. 

401 — A Girl Hero 20 

402 — A Letter ....*.' 20 

— 403 — Discarded 20 

404 — A Strange Betrothal * 20 

405 — His Brother’s Widow 20 

— 406 — A Wife’s Crime 20 

— 407— The Young School-Teacher 20 

— 408 — A Great Divorce Case 20 

— 409— A Curious Disappearance 20 

— 410 — The Divorced Wife 20 

— 411 — Blind Elsie’s Crime 20 

— 412 — Wronged 20 

THOMAS HARDY’S WORKS. 

— 30 — Romantic Adventures of a Milk-Maid 10 

— 482 — Far from the Madding Crowd 20 

— 569 — A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 

570 — The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

587 — The Trumpet Major 20 

Works by the Author of “ HIS WEDDED WIFE.” 

127 — His Wedded Wife 20 

222 — A Great Mistake 20 

223— A Fatal Dower 20 

617 — Barbara ^,0 


MARY CECIL HAV’S WORKS. 


- 50 — Back to the Old Home 

- 69 — Old Myddleton’s Money 

-174— For Her Dear Sake 

-178 — The Arundel Motto 

-184 — Hidden Perils 

-194— My First Offer 

■241— The Squire’s Legacy 

247 — Nora’s Love Test 

480 — Dorothy’s Venture 

506 — Victor and Vanquished 

6^0-^4 Wielded Girl 


10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 


MUNEO^S LIBRARY-POCKET EDITION, 

MRS. CASHEL HOEY’S WORKS. 

261— The Lover’s Creed 20 

673— A Stern Chase 20 

MRS. H. C. HOFFMAN’S WORKS. 

391— A Treacherous Woman 

392 — Married by the Mayor 

393 — A Harvest of Thorns 

394— Laughing Eyes 

395— Married at Midnight 

396— Lost to the World 

397 — Love Conquers Pride 

398 — A Miserable Woman 

399— A Sister’s Vengeance 

455 — Leah’s Mistake 

456 — A Tom-Boy 

457 — Broken Vows 

ADAH M. HOWARD’S WORKS. 


■ 54— A Woman’s Atonement 20 

• 83 — Irene Gray's Legacy 20 

• 90 — Sundered Hearts 20 

■107 — Doubly Wronged 20 

■128— Uncle Ned’s Cabin 20 

131 — A Blighted Home 10 

■132— The Child-Wife 10 

426— A Mother’s Mistake 20 

■427 — A Haunted Life . 20 

•428 — A Desperate Woman 20 

■429— Little Nana 20 

■430— By Mutual Consent 20 

-655-:-Little Madelme 20 


2C 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


C. P. R. JAMES’ WORKS. 


205 — Agnes Sorel 20 

227 — Darnley....! 20 

WM. H. G. KINGSTON’S WORKS. 

135 — Mark Seaworth 20 

166 — The Midshipman, Marmaduke Merry 20 

CHARLES LEVER’S WORKS. 

140 — Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon — Part 1 20 

141 — Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon-Part II 20 

157 — Harry Lorrequer 20 

160 — Tom Burke, of “ Ours ” — Parti 20 

.. 160— Tom Burke, of “ Ours”— Part II 20 


MUNRO'S LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION, 

THE “COUNTESS’” WORKS. 


No Price. 

84^Set in Diamonds 20 

88 — The World Between Them 20 

97 — A Passion Flower 20 

MRS. DALE’S WORKS. 

82 — Fair and False 20 

96 — Behind the Silver Veil 20 

A. D’ENNERY’S WORKS. 

24 — The Two Orphans 10 

— 654 — The Wife’s Sacrifice 10 


CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

38 — David Copperfield 

45 — Old Curiosity Shop 

71 — Nicholas Nickleby 

74 — Christmas Stories 

—179 — Barnaby Rudge 

—185 — A Tale of Two Cities 

192 — Oliver Twist 

214— Hard Times 

316 — Our Mutual Friend — Part I 

317 — Our Mutual Friend — Part II 

318 — Bleak House — Part I 

319 — Bleak House — Part H 

820 — Martin Chuzzlewit — Part I 

321 — Martin Chuzzlewit — ^Part II 

322 — Dombey and Son — Part I 

323— Dombey and Son — Part H 

324 — Great Expectations 

325 — IVIrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings and Legacy 

-326— Little Dorrit — Part I 

327 — Little Dorrit — Part II 

328— The Pickwick Papers— Part I 

329— The Pickwick Papers— Part H 

330— Mystery of Edwin Drood 

331— 'The Uncommercial Traveler 

332 — Sketches by Boz 

333 — American Notes 

334— Pictures from Italy, and Mudfog Papers 

BENJAMIN DISRAELI’S WORKS. 

41 — Lothair 

542 — The Young Duke 

543— Tancred; or, The New Crusade 

544 — Miriam Alroy 

545 — ^^Henrietta Temple 

546 — Conjngsby 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


MUNRO'S LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION. 

SAMUEL LOVER’S WORKS.. 

No. 

462— Handy Andy 

463— Rory O’More 


SIR BULWER LYTTON’S WORKS. 

42— The Last Days of Pompeii 

65— A Strange Story • • • 

KATHARINE S. MACQUOID’S WORKS. 

578— Marjorie — 

084— Joan Wentworth 


HELEN B. MATHER’S WORKS. 

182— Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 

478 — Story of a Sin 

507— “Cherry Ripe” 

559— Sam’s Sweetheart 

560— My Lady Green Sleeves 

626— Found Out 


FLORENCE MARRYAT’S WORKS. 

591 — Peeress and Player 

629 — Her Lord and Master 

630— My Sister, the Actress 

631— “My Own Child.” - - 

632— “ No Intentions.” <■ 

633 — Written in Fire 

634 — Captain Norton’s Diary 

635— The Girls of Feversham 

636— The Root of all Evil 

637— Out of His Reckoning 

638 — Facing the Footlights... 

639 — Petronel 

640 — A Star and a Heart 

641 — Ange - 

642 — A Harvest of Wild Oats 

643 — A Little Stepson 

644— Phyllida 

•645 — With Cupid’s Eyes 

646 — The Poison of Asps 

-647— The Fair-Haired Alda 

648— A Lucky Disappointment 

649 — The Heir Presumptive 

650 — Under the Lilies and Roses 

651 — The Heart of Jane Warner 

652 — Love’s Conflict — Part I 

653 — Love’s Conflict — Part II 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


MUNRO^S LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION, 


CHARLOTTE M. STANLEY’S WORKS. 

No. Price. 

111 — The Shadow of a Sin 20 

112 — A Waif of the Sea 20 

113 — The Huntsford Fortune 20 

114 — The Secret of a Birth 20 

115— Jessie Deane 20 

116 — A Golden Mask 20 

117 — Accord and Discord 20 

118 — A Death-Bed Marriage 20 

1 10 — Hearts and Gold 20 

ROBERT L. STEVENSON’S WORKS. 

557 — The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde 10 

558 — Prince Otto 10 

595 — The Dynamiter 20 

613 — Kidnapped 20 

624 — New Arabian Nights 20 

665 — Treasure Island 10 

EUGENE SUE’S WORKS. 

156 — The Wandering Jew — Parti 20 

156— The Wandering Jew — Part H 20 

159— The Mysteries of Paris — Part 1 20 

159 — The Mysteries of Paris — Part II 20 

WM. MASON TURNER’S WORKS. 

51 — Maggie; or, The Loom Girl of Lowell 20 

73 — Gertrude, the Governess 20 

L. B. WALFORD’S WORKS. 

221 — The Baby’s Grandmother 20 

233— Mr. Smith 20 

236 — Cousins 20 

237— Troublesome Daughters 20 

481 — The History of a Week 10 

F. WARDEN’S WORKS. 

121— At the World’s Mercy 10 

226 — The House on the Marsh 20 

310 — Deldee; or, The Iron Hand 20 

413 — A Prince of Darkness 20 

589 — Doris’ Fortune 10 

J. S. WINTER’S WORKS. 

136 — Regimental Legends 7. 20 

355 — Mignon, by J. S. Winter, and Society in London 20 
464— In the 25tli Dragoons 10 


MUNRO'S LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION. 

J. S. Winter’s Works-Continued. 

Price. 

530 — Cavalry Life 20 

581— 'Army Society 10 

HAZEL WOOD’S WORKS. 

669— An Only Daughter 20 

670 — On the Quicksands 20 

671— A Terrible Tangle 20 

672 — Her Son’s Wife 20 

— 673 — Two Wives 20 

—674 — The Tramp's Daughter 29 

_ 675 — ^Were They Married ? 20 

—676— Poor Nell 20 

—677— Little Bessie 20 

MRS. HENRY WOOD’S WORKS. 

34 — East Lynne 20 

230— The Mystery 20 

EMILE ZOLA’S WORKS. 

155— Life’s Joys 20 

202 — ^Mysteries of Louis Napoleon’s Court 20 

MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 

27 — When the Ship Comes Home, by Besant and Rice 20 

43 — Charlotte Temple, by Mrs. Rowson 10 

52 — Two Wedding Rings, by M. Blount 20 

56 -The Curse of Dangerfield, by E. Snow 20 

63— Lucille, by Owen Meredith 20 

64 — Charles Auchester, by E. Berger 20 

68 — Called to Account, by Annie Thomas 20 

78 — A Double Marriage, by B. Collensie 20 

79 — The Wentworth Mystery, by W. Phillips 20 

81 — Plot and Counterplot, by the Author of “ Quad- 

roona” 20 

86 — Little Golden 20 

87 — Daughters of Eve, by Paul Merritt 20 

91— A Fatal Wooing, l3y Laura Jean Libbey..., 20 

94 — Merit Versus Money, by G. Marnell 20 

98— Pauline, by the Author of “Leonnette’s Secret” 20 

101— Dregs and Froth, by A. H. Wall 20 

108— The Eyrie, and the Mystery of a Young Girl. 20 

109 — Gabrielle, by Louise McCarthy 20 

122 — Circumstantial Evidence 10 

124— Marjorie’s Child 20 

125 — A Coachman^ Love, by H. Bernard 20 

126 — A Dangerous Game, by Ida Linn Girard 10 

133 — The Beautiful Rivals 10 

134 — ^For a Dream’s Sake, by Mrs. Herbert Martin 20 


MVNRO^S LIBRARY-BROCKET EDITION, 


D. O’Sullivan’s Works-Continued. 


No. Price. 

— 416— A Strange Case 20 

— 417 — Mary Mavourneen 20 

—418 — The Lion of Limerick 20 

—419 — The Beauty of Benburb 20 

— 420— The Maid of Cremona 20 

—421— Eviction 20 

—502— Eileen Alanna 20 

—504— Robert Emmet 20 

“OUIDA’S” WORKS. 

— 72— Moths 20 

—189— Friendship 20 

— 196 — Pascarel 20 

— 200 — Signa 20 

— 242 — Wanda, Countess von Szalras 20 

— 471 — Othmar 20 

— 476— In Maremma 20 

—663 — A House Party 10 

JAMES PAYN’S WORKS. 

— 33— Kit: A Memory 20 

—431— The Luck of the Darrells. 20 

— 473 — The Canon’s Ward 20 

—583 — One of the Family 20 

—590— The Heir of the Ages 20 


JANE PORTER’S WORKS. 


62 — Thaddeus of Warsaw 20 

424 — Scottish Chiefs— Part I 20 

425 — Scottish Chiefs— Part H 20 


CEO. W. M. REYNOLDS’ WORKS. 

-106— The Woman in Red 

-148— Leila 

-149 — Karaman, sequel to Leila 

-265— Agnes Evelyn 

-266— The Child of Waterloo 

-267— Robert Macaire . 

-268— Mysteries of the Merry Monarch’s Court— Part 1. 
-269— Mysteries of th« Merry Monarch’s Court— Part II. 

-270— The First False Step 

-271— The Slave Woman of England 

.272— Faust and the Demon— Part I 

.273— Faust and the Demon— Part H 

-274— The Degraded Deserter— Part I 

.275— The Degraded Deserter— Part II 

.276 — The Necromancer— Part I ; — 

. 277 — The Necromancer — Part II 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


MUNRaS LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION. 

Ceo. W. M. Reynolds’ Works-Continued. 

No. Prick. 

278— The Mystery of the Marchmonts— Part 1 20 

279— The Mystery of the Marchmonts— Part II 20 

280 — Bertram Vivian — Part 1 20 

281 — Bertram Vivian — Part II . . 20 

282 — The Countess of Lascelles — Part 1 20 

283 — The Countess of Lascelles — Part II 20 

284 — The Doom of the Burker — Part 1 20 

285 — The Doom of the Burker — Part II 20 

286 — Pose Somerville 20 

287— Tragic Scenes in the Life of a London Physician . . 20 

288 — The Young Duchess 20 

289— Imogene Hartland 20 

290— Ethel Trevor 20 

291 — Wagner, the WehrWolf — Part 1 20 

— 292— Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf — Part II 20 

293 — Mysteries of the Court of Queen Elizabeth 20 

294 — Ada Arundel 20 

295 — Olivia 20 

296 — Joseph Wilmot — Part I 20 

-297— Joseph Wilmot — Part II 20 

298 — Joseph Wilmot — Part III 20 

299 — The Greek Corsair — Part 1 20 

300 — The Greek Corsair — Part II 20 

301 — The Greek Corsair — Part III 20 

CHARLES READE’S WORKS. 

39 — Very Hard Cash 20 

144 — A Terrible Temptation 20 

158— It is Never Too Late to Mend. 20 

-161 — Foul Play.... 20 

162— Put Yourself in His Place 20 

190 — Griffith Gaunt 20 

198 — A Woman Hater 20 

201 — Readiana 10 

254 — The Knightsbridge Mystery, and the Picture 10 

F. W. ROBINSON’S WORKS. 

207— Tlie Man She Cared For 20 

432— The Courting of Mary Smith 20 

584— A Fair Maid 20 

W. CLARK RUSSELL’S WORKS. 

167 — Jack’s Courtship 20 

188 — A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

338— On the Fo’k'sle Head 20 

668 — A Voyage to the Cape 20 

SIR WALTER SCOTT’S WORKS. 

40 — Ivanhoe 20 

-146— The Monasterr 20 

147 — The Abbot, sequel to the Monastery 20 


MUNRaS LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION, 


OWEN MARSTON'S WORKS. 

No. Price. 

89 — Beauty’s Marriage 20 

100 — A Dark Marriage Morn 20 

104 — Lover and Husband : 20 


MRS. ALEX. McVElCH MILLER’S WORKS. 

1 — A Dreadful Temptation 20 

2— The Bride of the Tomb 20 

3 — An Old Man’s Darling ! 20 

4 — Queenie’s Terrible Secret 20 

5— Jaquelina 20 

6— Little Golden’s Daughter 20 

7 — The Rose and the Lily 20 

8— Countess Vera 20 

9 — Bonnie Dora 20 

10— Guy Kenmore’s Wife 20 

HANNAH MULOCK’S WORKS. 

28— John Halifax, Gentleman 20 

574 — ‘ ‘ King ” Arthur 10 

DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY’S WORKS. 

203 — The Way of the World f. 20 

496 — Rainbow'Gold 20 

497 — First Person Singular 20 

498— Hearts m 20 

499 — A Life’s Atonement 20 

500— Val Strange 20 

531 — Aunt Rachel 10 

594 — Cynic Fortune 10 

596 — By the Gate of the Sea 10 

W. E. NORRIS’ WORKS. 

342 — That Terrible Man............ 10 

619 — My Friend Jim 10 

MRS. OLIPHANT’S WORKS. 

143 — The Minister’s Wife 20 

199 — A Little Pilgrim 10 

505— Greatest Heiress in England 20 

508 — A Country Gentleman 20 

524 — A House Divided Against Itself 20 

597— Effie Ogilvie. 20 

D. O’SULLIVAN’S WORKS. 

414 — O’Driscoll of Darra 20 

415 — Famed Fontpr.i-.Tr 2Q 


MUNRaS LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION, 


Miscellaneous Works-Continued, 

No, Prick. 

138 — Susan Drummond, by Mrs. J. H. Riddell...: 20 

139— Robbing Peter to Pay Paul, by John Saunders.... 20 

142— The Flirt, by Mrs. Grey.... 20 

151 — The Queen’s Book, Victoria R. 1 20 

152— John Brown’s Legs, by Ken ward Philp 20 

153— Berlin Society, by Count Paul Vasili 10 

163— Leonie, by the Author of “ For Mother’s Sake ” . . 20 

168— An Old Man’s Love, by Anthony Trollope....'. 10 

180— The Sun Maid, by Miss Grant 20 

204 — Wild Oats, by Henry Greville 20 

206— Claire and the Forge-Master, by Geo. Ohnet 20 

208 — Pretty Miss Neville, by B. M. Croker 20 

209 — Fourteen Years with Adelina Patti 10 

210 — Sappho, by Alphonse Daudet 10 

213— Cruel as the Grave, by Genevieve Ulmar 20 

228 — A Sinless Secret, by “ Rita ” 10 

231 — The Gambler’s Wife, by Author of “ The Belle of 

the Family,” etc 20 

234— Beyond Recall, by Adeline Sergeant 10 

235 — The Parisian Detective, by F. Du Boisgobey 10 

' 239 — Love and Mirage; or, Waiting on an Island 10 

- —243— A Sea Change, by Flora L. Shaw 20 

- 251— A Story of Three Sisters, by C. Maxwell 20 

- 257 — Tom Brown’s School Days, % Thos. Hughes 20 

- -264 — A Man of the W orld, by E. Y ates 20 

303 — A Terrible Crime, by Emma Garrison Jones 20 

- —304 — Addie’s Husband....* 20 

,314 — 20,000 Leagues under the Seas 20 

335— Life and Memoirs of General U. S. Grant 10 

337 — The Russians at the Gates of Herat, by C. Marvin 10 

340— A Lost Son, by Mary Linskill 10 

341— Dead Men Tell no Tales, but Live Men Do, by G. 

A. Sala 20 

343— Paul and Virginia, by B. de St. Pierre 10 

371— Curly, and My Poor Wife 10 

400— Life of Mary Andex;son, by J. M. FaiTar, M. A.... 10 

454 — The Dark House, by G. Manville Fenn 10 

460— The Phoenix, by Milton Nobles 20 

461— Tangles Unraveled, by Evelyn K. Johnson 20 

46.5 — The Rabbi’s Spell, by S. C. Cumberland 10 

468 — Britta, by George Temple. 10 

469 — Goblin Gold, by May Crommelin 10 

472 — Great Britain Through American Spectacles, by 

Rev. T. Dewitt Talmage : 20 

^4— A Barren Title, by T. W. Speight 10 

495 — ’Twixt Love and Duty, by Tighe Hopkins 20 

501— Woman Against Woman, by Mrs. M. A. Holmes 20 
503 — The Mikado and other operas, by W. S. Gilbert. . 20 

509— Unfairly Won, by Nannie P. O’Donoghue 20 

537_WW Oilt, by H. Bernard . 


MUNRO'S LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION, 

Miscellaneous Works— Continued. 

■528 — The Last of The MacAllisters, by A. E. Barr 

-529 — Until the Day Breaks, by Emily Spender 

539— Griselda 

556 — The Mark of Cain, by Andrew Lang 

566 — Witness My Hand 

-576 — The Secret of Her Life, by Edward Jenkins . . . 

579— The Head Station, by Mrs. Campbell-Praed 

580 — A Diamond in the Rough, by Alice O’Hanlon.... 

— 582 — In the Old Palazzo, by Gertrude Forde 

585— Pretty Miss Bellew, by Theodore Gift 

586 — Fleurange, by Madame Auguste Craven 

588 — ^A Fallen Idol, by T. Anstey 

593 — Buried Diamonds, by Sarah Tytler 

598— Amoret, by Charles Gibbons 

599 — The Crack of Doom, by William Minto 

612 — Like Lucifer, by Denzil Vane 

615— A Daughter of the Gods, by Jane Siumey 

616— Keep My Secret, by G. M. Robins 

618— Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart 

622 — Our Radicals, by Fred Burnabj’ 

627 — An Ill-Regulated Mind, by Katharine Wylde 

628 — Delicia, by Beatrice May Butt 

656 — A Phantom Lover, by Vernon Lee 

557 — Baptized with a Curse, by Edith S. Drewry 

658— Divorce 

660— King Solomon’s Mines, by H. Rider Haggard.... 

662 — Little Tu’penny, by S. Baring Gould 

678 — Faust: a Weird Story, by Alfred R. Phillips 

681 — The Holy Rose, by Walter Besant 

682 — A Willful Young Woman 

683 — Golden Bells, by R. E. Francillon 

■684 — Joan Wentworth, by Katharine S. Macquoid.... 

685 — By Woman’s Wit, by Mrs. Alexander 

686— The World Went Very Well Then, by W. Besant 

687 — Nine of Hearts, by B. L. Far jeon 

688 — For Maimie’s Sake, by Grant Allen 

689 — Love and Life, by Charlotte M. Yonge 

690 — Chantry House, by Charlotte M. Yonge 

694 — John Maidenent, by Julian Sturgis 


LITHOGRAPH COVERS. 

From 700 Upward. 

700 — She, by H. Rider Haggard 

701 — For Another’s Sin, by Charlotte M. Braeme 

702 — One Thing Needful, by Miss M. E. Braddon 

703 — The Master Passion, by Florence Marryat 

704 — A Modern Telemachus, by Charlotte M. Yonge.. 

705 — Les Miserables — Part 1, by Victor Hugo 

706 — Les Miserables— Part II, by Victor Hugo 

707— Les Miserables— Part HI, by Victor Hugo 


10 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

’ 20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


3IUNRaS LIBRARY— POCKET EDITION, 


Miscellaneous Works-Continued. 

708— The Rival Cousins, by Col. Prentiss Ingraham.... 

709— Claribel’s Love Story, by Charlotte M. Braeme... 

710 — A Poor Gentleman, by Mrs. Oliphant 

711— Pure Gold, by Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 

712— Karma, by A. P. Sinnett • 

713— A Woman’s War, by Charlotte M. Braeme 

714— Hilary’s Folly, by Charlotte M. Braeme 

715 - A Haunted Life, by Charlotte M. Braeme 

716— Jess, by H. Rider Haggard 

717— Why Not? by Florence Marryat 

718— The Merry Men, and An Inland Voyage, by R. L. 

Stevenson 

719— In one Town, by Edmund Downey 

720— Elizabeth’s Fortune, by Bertha Thomas 

721 — “ He,” a companion .to “ She,” 

722 — Springhaven, by R. D. Blackmore 

723— Wooed and Married, by Rosa Nouchette Carey. . 

724— ‘‘ Dawn,” by H. Rider Haggard, Complete 

725 — The Woodlanders, by Thomas Hardy 

726—“ It,” the Most Popular Book of the Age 

727— Wee Wifie, by Rosa Nouchette Carey 

728— Her World Against a Lie, by Florence Marryat. . 

729 — The Dead Secret, by Wilkie Collins 

730 — Sabina Zembra, by William Black 

731 — Knight-Errant, by Edna Lyall 

732 — Her Johnnie, by Violet Whyte 

733—“ Pa,” by Author of “ He,” “ It,” etc 

734—“ Ma,” by Author of “ He,” “ It,” etc 

-735— The Golden Hope, by W. Clark Russell 

736 — King Solomon’s Wives, by Auther of “He,” 

“ It,” etc 

737 — King Solomon’s Treasures, by Author of “ He,” 

“ It,” etc 

738 — Allan Quatermain, by H. Rider Haggard 

739—“ Bess,” A Companion to “ Jess ” 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


Munro’s Library is inclosed in beautiful lithograph covers. 

The price remains the same, 20 cents per copy. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, 
postage free, on receipt of price, by the publisher. Address, 

MUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

^4 and 36 Vandewater Street, New York. 


$ 


s 


$ 






I 




« 




# 


$ 


$ 





t >' 


* I 


t 


0 


r 



t 


t 


> 


THE CELEBRATED 

SinEB 

Grand, Square and Upright 



PIANOS 

Are at present the most popular 


AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 


me SOHMER Pianos are nsed in tHe 
following institntions: 

CJonvent of the Sacred Heart, Manhattan- 
viUe, N. Y. 

New York College of Music. 

Vogt’s Conservatory of Music. 

Arnold’s Conservatory of Music, 

Brooklyn. 

Philadelphia Conservatory of Music. 

Villa de Sales Convent, Long Island. 

N. Y. Normal Conservatory of Music. 
Villa Maria Convent, Mont’i. 

Vassar College, Poughkeepsie. 

And most all the lesimng nrst-class thea- 
ters in NEW YORK and BROOKLYN. 


THE WONBERTUL BUOU GRAND 

(lately patented) bySQHMER & CO., 
the Smallest Grand ever manufac- 
tured Gength only 5 feet) has created a 
sensation among musicians and artists. 
The music loving public wiU find it in 
theii* interest to c^ at the warerooms 
of SOHMER & CO. and examine 
the various Stymies of Grands, Uprights 
and ^uare Pianos. The original and 
beautiful designs and improvements in 
Grands and Upright Pianos deserve 
special attention. 


Received Pirst Prize Centennial Exposition, Philadelphia, 1876. 

Received First Prize at Exhibition, Monir^, Canada, 1881 and 1882. 


SOHMER & CO., 

MANUFACTURERS OF GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOFORTES, 

Warerooms, 149, 151, 163, 155 East 14th St., N. Y. 


i 








7 ! 


. r i *• . 




k - 



-Mm 


. . 

' fi ’ ll '. '.- '/• . 




: i 


» • 


I I 


f , 


^ * 
5 









■ V-. , ^ ■ui'*-;'". 

' ‘ .' • , • ' ■ . '/ .*••■ ,/':'i * « ■, • ' 


i > 

« ' i 

k ^ t 





, JE*» 1 

■• * • ' fi ^ *• 

•V ^ f ' • * 





■'A' 


a 

a> 

• •4 


tyf ;- ' ■■’ ■■>' ' ' ■ 




•' '■ ! 


v«. ./• 


s • 


>■: 


i>"‘ •■•o:,.'^' .' 




fi 3 ;‘ =■•■•>* 









t * 

. V ' t ' ’ 'M^Ai ■* 




♦ ^ * 






iU. 


M 


K 


• # • 


.N 


. . '- * * , t 


<4 






t -*•* 



• .0 


V' . 


‘l ' 

* . 1 - ’ 



•* » C ^ ’ 

■ A . m r 





» 

* I 


^ .. -’• 

I' 


1l 


• V ' y 


• » * • 




> 


>’ . 

I ( • . ' 

. I'i > "• 

\u\ 

.' ■ *'. .'f- 
■ >; 


t ; 


.V-: - '. -■ :;, : - 4 * 




• *. 


; > i 


/ ■ 


. t. 


»• 


v»; 


'/ 



‘f^ 

. - .> X ' • 

-V‘>‘ ■ 


'* ' j ?’ ■ 


1 •< 




• . ' 


.V 


♦ * ■’• s ’ >■ * ' i * 

' '-A!^ 'f^‘ '■ ■■' ‘f J 




- *s';.- -t' 

:v V 



,•1 

. I 


\ ' V' 


' ♦ ■ ’ • ^ *■ i J 

- M * v « »v 

■ > '! • , ...•** m 






• • i - . 
\ 




H ♦* 


y • ,* 


•« 


4a.Jv 


»A'-' ^ • 


? .S 


if 


V 


'-C- 





• , A . \ 1 y .' :f 

^ i^AWU 


‘A 


f 

f» 


1 • 




r • \ * / ' 1 ^ . 

JA .!/ a 1 a .. 4 ^. 






rA ,- r . 

--. k tt ‘^■A r •.*./ .\ a -.,' 


v'.«t 




•A 


r; 


'h 




library of congress 



ODoaiao'^bSE 



